Damaged
by Katica Locke
Summary: What happens when Reese can't be in two places at once? Non-explicit MM slash, Rinch
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** Because this idea wouldn't leave me alone. Warnings for off-screen violence against children. WIP

* * *

><p>"Mr. Reese?"<p>

"Good morning, Finch." The rising sun poured into the car where Reese sat, watching the current number through binoculars. The teenage girl was getting ready for school and he quickly averted his gaze as she began to change her clothes, his sharp eyes searching the idyllic, tree-lined street. "Got anything for me?"

"Yes, but not anything you're going to like."

"Oh?" He glanced back toward the window; she had on a skinny little tank and was standing before the mirror, one hand resting on her belly. Suddenly, she lunged across the room and he lost sight of her in the bathroom. "Does the Machine pick up self-harmful behavior, like an eating disorder?"

"No. Why?"

"Miss Prescott has vomited at least twice each morning for the last three mornings."

"I see...and does she induce the vomiting?"

"No, she just runs to the bathroom." The girl returned to her room, looking pale and worried.

"Perhaps she has the flu."

"She's fine the rest of the day."

"Oh," Finch said and Reese arched an eyebrow.

"Know something I don't?"

"Morning sickness, Mr. Reese - she's pregnant."

"And you have some experience with that?"

"Have you looked into the boyfriend?" Finch asked, ignoring him.

"Yeah, his name is Carson Miller, also sixteen. Maintains a four point, no trouble with the law, comes from a wealthy family. Father is a lawyer, mother died four years ago in a car accident. She was hit by a drunk driver. Funny thing - Miss Prescott hasn't called him once since her number came up."

Finch made a thoughtful noise. "I'll add him and his father to the list of suspects. Now, the reason I called-"

"That's right, you have bad news for me."

"Not bad, precisely, just inconvenient. We have another number. It came though this morning and it appears to be fairly urgent."

"Who is it?"

"Daniel Sutton."

"Sutton..." Reese frowned behind his binoculars. "Why does that name sound familiar?"

"His family has been in the papers and on the news frequently. Last spring, his wife, Carrie Sutton vanished from their home while he and his three children were on an impromptu fishing trip. No sign of forced entry or foul play, but she wasn't the type to just disappear. Mr. Sutton's story has never checked out and he has been a person of interest from the beginning, but without evidence, or proof that crime was even committed, the police have their hands tied. The children have been placed with relatives, but he's allowed supervised visits in his home."

"You think he did it?"

"Her number never showed up, so if he did, it wasn't premeditated. I don't know."

"So what do you think? Is he the victim, or the perpetrator?"

"I don't know," Finch said again. "My gut says perpetrator. If he's planning to kidnap his children and make a run for it, the social worker would be the clear target."

"I can run with that," Reese said, setting his field glasses in the passenger's seat. It was getting too late to safely keep his vigil. The neighborhood was waking up and there was no telling when some well-intentioned neighbor might notice him and call the police. "Of course, the wife's family might not like the speed at which the investigation is progressing; they might try to take matters into their own hands. Or maybe she did run away and she's planning to kill him and take her kids back."

"Like I said, Mr. Reese, it was just a gut feeling. I could be wrong."

"No, not you," Reese teased, picturing his employer's long-suffering expression as a tired sigh filtered through the earpiece. "Send me his address. I'll head over and establish eyes and ears on him after I make sure Miss Prescott gets to school okay. Odds are she'll be safe there, but I'll keep the link to her cell mic open, just in case."

"Let me know if there's anything I can do," Finch said.

"Will do," Reese said, ending the call and starting the car as a sleek, black sedan pulled up in front of the Prescott house. The car belonged to Kaylee Richards, the elder sister of Ashley Richards, Amy Prescott's best friend since the third grade. After a moment, Miss Prescott exited her home and climbed into the back seat of the sedan. Reese watched them pull away, then he eased away from the curb and began to follow


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** Thanks for the reviews! This plot bunny is biting hard, so I might have to put _Empathy_ on the back burner until I get this out of my system, but don't worry, I'll get back to it. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

* * *

><p>Of course, Mr. Sutton had to live on the other side of Queens, and as if the drive wasn't long enough already, Reese was forced to listen to the droning voice of Miss Prescott's English teacher, muffled just enough inside the girl's pocket that he couldn't make out what was being said. Not that he was particularly interested in literature, but maybe it would have given him and Finch something to talk about.<p>

Reese sighed. Nothing that Fusco had dug up had given him any better insight into the man. He had dozens of aliases, some that he'd been using for decades, so the paranoia went back much farther than the creation of his Machine, but what started it? And who had he been before Harold Wren appeared at MIT?

He was torn, conflicted. Did Finch's secrets really effect him or their job? He could argue that he wouldn't know until he learned them, but what it really came down to was whether or not he trusted the man. Did he trust Finch not to keep important information from him? Did he trust him not to lie? How could he when he knew nothing about him? Nothing, except that Finch had risked his own life to save Reese's. As hard as it was trust, it was harder to ignore that.

Reese arrived the Sutton home to find half a dozen reporters, news vans, and photographers camped out in front of the house, large _No Trespassing_ signs littering the trampled lawn. Making sure he had Stills' badge tucked inside his coat, he climbed out of his car and walked toward the house, ignoring the sudden stirring of life from the media vultures. He climbed the front steps and pounded on the door.

"I told you, I'm not giving interviews!" a man's voice shouted from behind the wood.

"Mr. Sutton, this is the police," Reese said. "Can I speak with you for a moment?"

"My lawyer told me not to say anything without him here," Mr. Sutton said, speaking normally, standing just on the other side of the door.

"I understand," Reese said, "but this is a matter unrelated to that. I could tell you now, but I think I would be overheard."

A moment later, the door opened, a haggard, middle-aged man standing in the doorway, dark circles under his eyes as he peeked out, then drew back and motioned for Reese to enter. Reese could hear the camera clicking away behind him. He hoped they got a lot of good shots of the back of his head.

Mr. Sutton shut the door and locked it, then turned to Reese, eyeing him nervously. "Would you mind showing me some I.D.? I had a photographer pretending to be my mailman yesterday."

"Not at all," Reese said, flashing the badge at him. "Is there anyone else in the house, Mr. Sutton?"

"No. Could you tell me why you're here, please?"

"Dispatch received a 911 call from this residence, an open line, no one talking, just some background noise - probably an accident, but we like to make sure."

"Do they always send detectives to check out wrong numbers?" Mr. Sutton asked, a slight frown creasing his brow.

"I was in the area," Reese replied, glancing around. "I could call a uniform, if you'd prefer - hell, I could call the entire SWAT team, if you'd like - but I'm afraid I can't leave until I've looked around and made sure no one here needs help."

Mr. Sutton sighed. "All right, fine, go look. You won't find anything."

"It'll only take a few minutes," Reese assured him. Reese made his way through the house, looking into every room and closet, placing bugs in the office and living room, downloading the contents of his home computer, and force pairing his cell phone. As he came back down the stairs, Mr. Sutton was standing in the living room, peering out through the blinds at the reporters gathered at the edge of his property.

"Everything seems to be in order," Reese said. "Thank you for your cooperation and I apologize for disturbing you."

"Believe me, this was hardly a disturbance," Mr. Sutton said, a hard edge to his tone. "Isn't there anything you could do about them?" He nodded out the window.

"Freedom of press, I'm afraid," Reese said. He hesitated at the front door. With Mark in town looking for him, it probably wasn't a good idea to have his face plastered across every tabloid rag in the city. "Do you have a back yard?"

"Yes."

"I should probably check it out before I go. Just to be thorough."

"Yeah, all right. Through the kitchen; the sliding door."

"Thanks," Reese said again. Slipping outside, he glanced around the wide, fenced back yard, the grass deep and ragged, a handful of kids' toys scattered across the patio. He crossed the grass to the back gate, picked the padlock, and eased the gate open. The alley looked deserted, but as he stepped out and pulled the gate shut, the rapid clicking of a camera made him tense.

"Mr. Sutton, Mr. Sutton, over here!"

Reese turned and the man drew back, looking startled, but he didn't stop snapping photos.

"Who are you?" he asked, raising the camera in front of his face again. Reese grabbed the camera and jerked it out of the man's hands, a hard punch to the left jaw sending him to the ground. Reese slammed the camera to the pitted alley surface, then stomped on it for good measure before bending down and picking through the pieces for the memory card. He circled around the block, the media vultures not even noticing him as he climbed into his car, their attention still focused on the house.

As he pulled away, he dialed Finch. "Just leaving the Sutton place," he reported. "I wouldn't be surprised if he was planning to kill the photographers camped outside his home."

"I'll add them to the list. Any news on Miss Prescott?"

"Nothing yet. Did you find anything?"

"No. I went back through her social network and it's deliberately vague and innocuous. I'd say she knows at least one of her parents checks up on her."

"They haven't been checking close enough or she wouldn't be sixteen and pregnant."

"Have you ever raised a teenager, Mr. Reese?" Finch asked, a slight edge to his tone that made Reese arch an eyebrow.

"No. Have you?"

"No, but I used to know someone who did. It's not as easy as it looks. How far out are you?"

"About an hour, if the traffic isn't too bad. I should be there before school gets out."

"Good. Should I have Fusco on stand-by, just in case?"

"I'll be there," Reese said, "but I'd tap Carter for this one. Fusco's got his hands full."

"Right. And if you get a minute, could you come by the library? I have some information on Mr. Sutton that you should have."

"Oh, you mean I might actually get to see you?" Reese said, smiling even though Finch couldn't see him. "It's been what? Four days?"

"I could leave the file on the table if being in my presence would be too distracting for you," Finch said dryly.

"No, no, I want to see you," Reese said, his grin widening at the resulting silence.

"You do?"

"Yes, I need to see what color tie you're wearing."

"Whatever for?" Finch asked, his voice muffled, and Reese could just picture him looking down at his tie as he spoke.

"You'll think it's stupid," Reese said, glancing in his rear view mirror before changing lanes.

"Possibly," Finch said, and Reese could hear the faint ticking of his fingers against his keyboard, "but if I do, I'll keep my opinion to myself."

Reese chuckled. "If I can guess what color tie you're wearing, I'll treat myself to a latte, otherwise it's just black coffee."

"I see..." Finch said, and Reese couldn't be certain, but there was a definite possibility that Finch might be smiling. "Have you been playing this game long?"

"Just since we wrapped up Joey Durban's case."

"And how often do you win?"

"I've won once," Reese said. "You have a lot of ties."

"I could tell you what color it is," Finch said.

"I'd rather see for myself."

"I won't lie to you, Mr. Reese."

"I know," Reese said. "I'll see you in an hour."


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:** This chapter contains mentions of violence against children inspired by real-life events, as well as Rinch hurt/comfort fluff, so consider yourselves warned. Thanks for reading and reviewing!

* * *

><p>Sitting in his car across the street from the Prescott house, Reese watched Mr. and Mrs. Prescott exit the premises just before eight, both dressed in casual eveningwear. Amy waved good-bye from the porch, then went back inside. Binoculars in hand, he tracked her progress up the stairs and into her room, where she sat down on her bed and opened her laptop.<p>

Lowering the field glasses, his sharp eyes searched the shadows around the house, moving up and down the street before returning to the window. The poor girl looked absolutely miserable, worrying her fingernail between her teeth as the blue glow the computer screen lit her face, making the shadows under her eyes as dark as coal.

All was quiet for about an hour, until movement on the street caught his attention. He glanced over as a lone figure in a black hooded sweatshirt approached the house on the sidewalk. Nothing about the person or their behavior was particularly suspicious or menacing, but the sight of them put Reese's instincts on edge. He watched the figure walk past the house, then turn and come back, cutting across the lawn and taking the front steps two at a time. On the porch, they began lifting the flower pots lined up on the rail until they found what they were looking for.

A key.

Reese shoved his door open and climbed out of the car, his legs and back stiff from sitting for too long, but he ignored it, reaching back under his jacket and drawing his pistol. As the figure entered the house, Reese strode across the street, his gaze turned upward, to the girl's room. She appeared not to have heard the intruder.

His cell made a noise, alerting him to an incoming text message, and he glanced at it as he crossed the sidewalk, then stopped dead at the edge of the lawn. It was a text from Mr. Sutton, sent to his brother and his parents.

_I'm sorry for everything. Please forgive me. They're going to take my kids. I can't live without my children. God forgive me._

Reese started to call Finch, but his phone was already ringing. He pressed the tiny button to activate his earpiece. "You have to do something, Finch," Reese said, hurrying across the grass and up onto the porch. "Someone just broke into the Prescott house and Amy is home alone."

"I'll call the police," Finch said and the line went silent as Finch put him on hold. Reese slipped into the house, taking a steadying breath as he pushed all thoughts of Mr. Sutton from his mind. He couldn't do anything about it and he couldn't afford to be distracted by it. He glanced into the kitchen and living room, but a set of damp, fresh footprints led up the stairs. Finger on the trigger, he crept up the steps, Amy's terrified voice making his blood run cold.

"Carson, please, don't do this, don't hurt our baby."

"This is your fault," Carson said, his voice quavering. Reese reached the second floor and moved silently down the hall. Carson stood in the doorway of Amy's room, his arm shaking as he pointed a gun at the girl, aiming for her belly.

Coming up behind him, Reese forced his arm up into the air, grabbed his wrist, broke it, and pulled the weapon out of his grasp. Carson screamed in pain, but Reese shut him up, grabbing him by the back of the shirt and slamming his head into the wall, hard enough to put a dent in the sheetrock. Amy screamed as he crumpled to the floor.

"Easy, easy," Reese said, tucking his own gun back into his waistband and tossing the boy's weapon down the stairs. "It's okay now. Nobody is going to hurt you. I'm going to call the police to come and get him. You might want to call your parents."

He headed back downstairs, listening to the silence on the line for a moment before disconnecting and dialing Carter.

"Don't you ever sleep?" she asked.

"It's only nine o'clock, Detective," he said. "I've left a care package for you; a teenage boy tried to kill his girlfriend and their unborn child."

"Did you kill him?"

"No."

"Did you shoot out his kneecaps, at least?"

The corner of his mouth twitched in a faint smile. "No, but feel free to-" His phone clicked, letting him know he was getting another call. Finch. He quickly gave Carter the address and hung up.

"I'm on my way, Finch," he said, jogging across the street. "Did you get through to the police?"

"They were too late," Finch said, a hollowness in his voice making Reese's steps falter.

"He's dead?"

There was a momentary hesitation. "Yes."

Reese closed his eyes and took a slow breath. "Suicide?"

"Yes. Is Miss Prescott safe?"

"Yeah; Carter's on her way to collect the boyfriend. Do you need me to come in?"

"No, Mr. Reese. You should get some rest. I'll call when I have another number."

"That's it? Finch?" There was no answer. He'd already hung up. Reese climbed into his car and slid the key into the ignition, but didn't turn it. After a moment, he pulled out his cell and connected to the microphone in Mr. Sutton's phone. His earpiece filled with a cacophony of voices and noises, too much to sift anything useful out of. He switched to the bug in the living room, but the sound was identical. He must have killed himself in there. He accessed the device in the office, listening hard into the silence for the distant voices.

"Can you handle this?" a man's gruff voice said suddenly. "We've got enough men if you need to go." It sounded too far away to be in the room, probably outside in the hall.

"What could drive a man to do something like this?" another man asked, his voice younger and choked with emotion. "They were his fucking kids. I mean, he- he-"

"Go home," the first man said, but Reese wasn't listening anymore. He silenced his phone and sat staring out through the windshield. _The kids_. Three children under the age of eight. What the hell were they doing there? Why had he even been allowed to see them? Because he'd never been charged with anything. There hadn't been enough evidence to arrest him. And now three little kids were dead. That was the fucking justice system for you. It was no wonder he and Finch had to operate outside the law-

_Finch_. Reese placing his hands on the steering wheel, his grip tightening until his knuckles turned white. Finch got the text. He called Reese. He called the police. Then he would have accessed Mr. Sutton's cell or the bugs, he would have been listening, he would have heard-

"Jesus," Reese whispered. Finch heard the man kill his kids. The hollowness in Finch's voice echoed inside Reese. How could he not have noticed? He dialed Finch, but it just rang and rang before going to voicemail. He hung up, started the car, and pulled away from the curb.

He parked across the street from the library and tried Finch's phone one more time, with the same result. Crossing against the light, he slipped into the building and took the stairs two at a time, moving swiftly and silently down the hall. Not sure what he expected to find, he stepped into the main room and stopped, watching Finch taking the pictures down from the cracked pane of glass. He plucked a photo of Mr. Sutton and his three children from the board, his shoulders shaking as he took a shuddering breath. He turned and took a step toward the List - the visual record of every lost life he blamed himself for - but drew up short at the sight of Reese.

"Mr. Reese!" He turned away again, but not quick enough. Reese had seen the damp tracks on his face. "What are you doing here?"

"You weren't answering your phone," Reese said.

"One might assume that meant I didn't want to be disturbed."

"I was...worried about you."

"Me? Whatever for?"

"You heard it, didn't you? You listened while he killed them."

"He cut their throats," Finch whispered, that same hollow emptiness in his voice. Then he seemed to shake himself. "You should go, Mr. Reese. I'm fine."

Reese hesitated, then stepped toward him. "I don't think you are, Harold."

"I'm not in the mood for your bullshit!" Finch snapped, the sudden, unprovoked outburst confirming Reese's feeling that Finch was not in any way 'fine'. Finch turned, pale eyes narrowed. "Why weren't you there? Why didn't you stop this? That's why I hired you - This is all your fault!" He took a lurching step forward and gave Reese a shove, both hands flat against his chest, hard enough to make Reese take a startled step backward. "Why weren't you there!" Finch shouted again, and Reese jerked back as Finch took a clumsy swing at him, before grabbing the smaller man by the wrist.

Finch stiffened, the anger vanishing as he tried to pull away. "Let go of me," he said. Reese hesitated, his heart beginning to pound as he stepped closer and pulled Finch up against him, letting go of his wrist to wrap his arms around the rigid shoulders.

"I'm sorry," Reese said, speaking through the tightness in his throat. "I'm sorry I wasn't there. I'm sorry I couldn't save them." Finch was shaking hard, his breath coming in short, repressed gasps, his clenched fists pressing against Reese's chest. "I'm sorry," Reese whispered again, his lips beside Finch's ear. Finch drew a loud, shuddering breath and seemed to crumble, his hands grabbing hold of Reese's jacket as he sobbed.

Reese held him, not bothering to fight his own silent tears. There were so many to cry for, so many lost lives he had never mourned. Grief was weakness, emotion was weakness, and the CIA had no room for the weak.

Finch's sobs were starting to grow quieter, less violent, and Reese realized that the moment was coming to an end. He'd never really thought about Finch as anything other than his employer, his handler, and occasionally his friend, but holding the man in his arms, feeling the strength in his damaged body, sharing this one intimate moment - a moment he acknowledge as unlikely to ever repeat - Reese had to fight the urge to hold on tighter. Crying, comforting, being _human_ were luxuries he'd long been denied.

Taking a bracing breath, Finch tensed, squaring his shoulders in preparation to pull away, and before Reese could stop himself, his hand had slid up to cradle the back of Finch's neck. Finch froze and Reese hesitated but a moment before letting his hands fall away and stepping back. He glanced away, wiping at the moisture on his face as Finch peeled off his glasses and fished a handkerchief out of his pocket.

"I should go," Reese said, and when Finch didn't argue, he turned and walked out. His brain shifted into survival mode, concentrating on escaping hostile territory and ignoring all other thoughts until he was safely in the car. After survival came damage control. The ideal outcome of his thoughtless action would be for both of them to forget it ever happened and to never speak of it again, but he seriously doubted if Finch ever forgot anything. In fact, he was probably analyzing it to death at that very moment.

Reese groaned and leaned forward in his seat, resting his forehead against the steering wheel. What must Finch be thinking? If Reese was lucky, Finch would assume that he was just copping a feel in order to learn about Finch's injury. After all, there were no innocent questions, so why should there be innocent hugs? If that was the case, Reese wasn't sure he'd feel all that fortunate. He hated the way Finch closed down, pushed him away, and brushed him off when he caught Reese snooping, or suspected he was digging for information. He much preferred the hesitant camaraderie that had slowly developed between them. That was surely gone now.

With a sigh, he sat up and started the car, checking the mirrors before pulling out into traffic. He was halfway to his hotel when his phone rang. For a moment, he wasn't sure what to do, which didn't happen often. His gut impulse was to ignore it, to let it go to voicemail; he didn't want to talk to Finch. Or more accurately, he was afraid to talk to Finch. That didn't happen often, either, although more frequently than anyone who knew him might have guessed.

One ring before it went to voicemail, Reese reached up and pressed the button on his earpiece. "Yeah, Finch?"

"Sorry to bother you, Mr. Reese," Finch said, his tone measured, but businesslike, not so different from any other day. But there was a difference, and Reese cursed himself for causing it. "I was wondering if I could ask a favor of you?"

"I suppose," Reese said, torn between relief and suspicion. Finch never asked him for favors. Was this a sign that Finch now viewed him as more than an employee, or was it a setup, a trap? Was this how Finch disposed of assets he was no longer comfortable working with? "What can I do for you?"

"I'm selling a piece of property - that brownstone where I first met with Detective Carter after the police lockup robbery. She may be on our side at the moment, but I'd rather not take any chances. There's a realtor coming first thing in the morning and with as busy as we've been, I haven't had a chance to finish clearing out my personal effects. There's not much left, just a small cardboard box on the sofa in the living room and I was hoping you wouldn't mind picking it up for me."

"Are you sure?" Reese asked, a small frown creasing his brow.

"It's nothing too personal, Mr. Reese," Finch said dryly. "Just some books, photos, toiletries, and the like. I'd tell you to feel free to go though my things, but I have a feeling you'll enjoy it more if you think you're getting away with something."

Reese didn't say anything for a long moment. He was right - Finch thought the embrace was nothing more than manipulation. Reese was surprised by how much that hurt. It hurt more than getting shot. "Do you want me to bring the box back to the library?" he asked finally.

"No, not tonight," Finch said. "I'm heading out and won't be here. The next time you see me is soon enough. Oh, and Reese? You're going to have to break in. I hope that won't be a problem."

"I'll be using my one phone call on you if it is," Reese joked, but the humor felt forced. He hated this. "Finch, I..." He'd been trained to lie his ass off to get out of any situation, but when it came to telling the truth...

"Good night, Mr. Reese," Finch said, and Reese wasn't sure, but there might have been something _soft_ in Finch's tone. Or Reese was hearing what he wanted to hear. He approached an intersection and glanced up at the street signs, trying to decide the fastest route to...Where? Finch hadn't given him the address. Before he could pick up his cell and call Finch back, it beeped, alerting him to an incoming text. With a wry smirk, Reese glanced at the address and turned uptown.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note:** Last chapter from Reese's POV, and it's a long one. Next chapter will start Finch for a while. I haven't decided if I'm going to go back to Reese at some point. I'll see where the story takes me, I guess. Thanks for all the reviews!

* * *

><p>It took less than an hour to find the address, break in, and collect the box. Most of that was spent driving. With the cache of items sitting in the passenger's seat, Reese headed for his hotel again, seeming to hit every red light on the way. Each time the traffic stopped, Reese couldn't help but glance over at the box, curiosity gnawing away at him. He didn't want to look, mostly because Finch had assumed he would and had, in fact, given him tacit permission, but even if he managed to resist, Finch would still assume he had. So why fight it?<p>

Keeping one eye on the light, Reese reached over and began fishing items out of the container, making a neat pile beside the box. Book, book, book, framed photo of a young man, another of a girl with a dog, a small metal canister of loose leaf green tea, toothbrush, toothpaste, floss, razor, a folded pair of black socks, an antique glass paperweight, and down in the very bottom, a blue ceramic dish with black paw prints around the outside and the word _Meow_ written in the bottom.

"What the hell?" Reese muttered. Behind him, someone honked and he quickly set the dish down and put the car into drive. Finch had a cat? How could he? He was always at the library. Did it live in the library? Reese had never seen any evidence of a cat, but then, he hadn't really been looking. Cats were notoriously independent and some could be rather shy around strangers. It _would_ explain why there were no mice in the library.

Pulling into an empty space in the hotel parking garage, Reese shut off the car, unbuckled his seatbelt, and turned toward the passenger's seat, taking his time and placing each object carefully back into the box. He considered leaving the box in car, but that would be inviting some punk to break his window. Plus, he hated to leave anything inside a vehicle in case he had to abandon it. Grabbing the box, he climbed out, closed the door, and pressed the button to set the alarm, the car chirping as the lights flashed.

Tired and hungry, Reese slid into observation mode as he made his way through the quiet parking structure to the elevator, not thinking about anything, just looking and listening, letting his instincts control his actions. He rode alone up to the third floor, then made his way down the long hall to his room, pulling his key card out of his pocket and sliding it through the reader. The door unlocked and he pushed it open, every muscle in his body tensing as his instincts sent a flash of adrenaline through his system - something wasn't right.

The lights in his room were on. He never left lights on. The room smelled like cooked meat, pepper, onions. He never ate in his room. Setting the box on the floor, Reese eased the door closed, the lock making just the faintest _click_ as it latched. He reached back and drew his weapon, thumbing the safety into the off position as he took a slow step forward. He glanced into the bathroom, but it was dark and empty. Quietly, he pulled the door closed.

He paused as a rhythmic squeaking filled the silence, followed by a hollow pop, like a bottle being uncorked. He crept forward, his eyes watching the shadow that moved back and forth across the wall, his hands shifting on his weapon once, then growing still, the gun becoming just an extension of his own body. Reese stepped out of the hall, pivoting on his right foot as he aimed at the intruder-

Finch turned, his pale eyes wide, and Reese quickly lowered the pistol. For a moment, they just stared at each other.

"I could have shot you," Reese said finally, tucking the gun back into his waistband.

"Yes...Yes, you could have," Finch replied, sounding slightly winded as he turned back to what he'd been doing. He was standing beside a room service trolley, meticulously setting the table. Reese licked suddenly dry lips.

"What are you doing here?"

"I thought...after the last few days, you could use a decent meal, not one of those dry, unpalatable protein bars you insist on buying by the case."

"And it's your job to look after me now?" Reese quipped, a harmless comment under any other circumstances, but after what had happened in the library, it felt barbed and left a sour taste in Reese's mouth.

Finch gave him a sideways glance. "Just returning the favor, Mr. Reese." He placed one of the wine glasses and one set of silverware on the table before stepping away. "I wasn't sure what you would prefer, so I ordered chicken with brown rice and asparagus, and steak with red potatoes and green beans. The wine will go well with either of them. It's not as strong as the stuff you're used to, but try not to drink the whole bottle anyway."

And then he headed for the door.

"You're not staying?" Reese asked.

Finch paused. "I wasn't planning on it."

"There are two glasses." He nodded toward the table.

"I ordered two meals and a bottle of wine; it's not an unreasonable assumption that two would be dining. I could take one away if it bothers you."

Reese regarded him for a moment, trying to decide if he was being snide, or just Finch. A bit of both, perhaps. Reese considered the table, the two meals, the two glasses, the two place settings...and the two of them. Was it just an honest mistake of the room service staff, or was this Finch constructing an elaborate setup to make a fool of him, to remind him of where he belonged? If Reese surrendered to the longing within him, would Finch reciprocate, or respond with scorn?

Reese didn't like being made a fool, and he didn't want to risk their working relationship, especially for something so weak and stupid. He didn't mind eating alone - he preferred it, actually, as he was sure Finch did as well. Neither of them needed companionship, friendship, solidarity. They were better off on their own, solitary islands in the dark, vast sea. They didn't need anyone...

"Is there something else, Mr. Reese?" Finch asked, his tone guarded.

Reese shook his head. "No, nothing," he said. "Good night, Finch."

Finch nodded and turned away, but not quickly enough for Reese to miss the disappointment that darkened his features. Disappointment that Reese had not fallen for his ruse, or that Reese had not invited him to stay? What was Finch playing at? Reese took a step after him.

"Harold?"

"Yes..." He was guarded again, cautious, uncertain. That made two of them.

"If you want to have dinner with me, all you have to do is ask." He tried to play cheeky and flirty, but it felt about as lighthearted as having a gun to his head.

"I see..." Finch said. "Well, the same applies if you want me to stay."

Reese licked suddenly dry lips, the silence tense and echoing as neither of them spoke. Finally, Finch began hobbling toward the door again.

"I wouldn't mind the company," Reese said.

"Neither would I." But he still didn't stop, and Reese realized that Finch was trying to force his hand, to make him admit his weakness, his want of human contact. Reese had been trained far too well for that. He recognized manipulation when he saw it, and he'd gone without food, without water, without sleep and light and basic human dignity, and he'd never broken. His strength was his shield, his guile was his armor, and if he let Finch get too close, the man could slip a knife between his ribs. Not literally, of course. Finch would never harm him, but if Reese wasn't careful, Finch could certainly hurt him.

Silently, Reese watched Finch near the door, and he pressed his lips into a thin, resolute line. As Finch bent down to pick up his box, Reese turned away, his gaze falling upon the table - dinner for two, but set for one.

_"That would take real courage, wouldn't it?"_ Reese closed his eyes, his chest tight as Jessica's words echoed in his head. He'd had no choice, he'd had to let her go, but that didn't stop it from eating him alive, wondering what might have happened, what could have been, if he'd just spoken up a little sooner.

"Wait," Reese said, his voice loud in the quiet room. Behind him, he heard the door close. Too late. Again, he was too late.

"Yes, Mr. Reese?"

Reese's eyes snapped open and he drew a sharp breath. He turned, staring at Finch, standing in front of the door with his box in his arms. Reese opened his mouth, closed it again, and took a deep breath.

"I would like it if you stayed," Reese said, and when that was too close to the truth, he had to add, "Unless you have somewhere you'd rather be, of course."

"Current circumstances taken into consideration, I can't think of anywhere," Finch said, placing the box back on the floor and straightening slowly, his steps noticeably stiffer as he limped back into the room. "Days like today were far too frequent before we began this suicidal crusade, and after much trial and error, I found an efficient means of dealing with the aftermath, usually involving equal parts crying, yelling, and drinking. If you'd like to shout at me a bit, you'll be caught up and we can get started on that bottle of wine."

"Maybe later," Reese said. He never walked down blind alleys, he never got in over his head, he always knew what he was doing, and he always knew when to get out. Until now. His brain stalled for a moment as Finch casually slipped out of his suit jacket and neatly draped it over the back of one of the chairs at the table, but Reese had been trained too well be to stuck in neutral for long. Finch was up to something - that was the only explanation - and Reese smoothly shifted into operative mode as he set about discovering exactly what sort of game the man was playing.

"So which would you prefer, the chicken or the steak?" Reese asked, shrugging out of his coat and tossing it onto the bed, followed by his own blazer. He picked up the extra wine glass and napkin full of silverware off the trolley and placed them in front of Finch.

"Ever play room service roulette?" Finch asked and Reese paused, arching an eyebrow at him. "Choose a plate," Finch said, nodding at the two covered dishes.

"Living a little dangerously, aren't we, Finch?" Reese teased, reaching out and picking up one of the plates, his gaze never leaving Finch's face. If Finch knew what was under each cover and cared which meal he received, he didn't let it show. Reese handed him the first and took the second for himself. Together, they lifted the covers, aromatic steam wafting up into the air. Reese got the chicken, Finch the steak.

"Disappointed with what fate has given you, Mr. Reese?" Finch asked, placing his napkin in his lap before picking up his knife and fork.

"I don't believe in fate," Reese said, mirroring the other man's actions. "My choices, however blind or misled, are my own doing. Besides, food is food; as long as it nourishes the body, who cares what it tastes like?"

"That explains your ability to stomach those protein bars. They look like fiberboard."

"Taste like it, too," Reese said, straight-faced. Finch glanced up at him and there was a heavy, awkward moment as Reese debated whether or not it was okay to laugh. After what Finch had been though, he didn't think so. They turned to their meals, silence settling around them, broken only by the click of silverware.

"Some say that good food, like good conversation and good wine, can nourish the spirit," Finch said after a moment.

Reese reached over, picked up the bottle of wine, and poured each of them a full glass. "Well, two out of three isn't bad," he said.

Finch took a sip. "I find it hard to believe that you're suddenly at a loss for words."

"You said good conversation," Reese reminded him, "not empty small-talk and smart-ass comments."

"I'm sure if we tried we could think of something profound and socially relevant to discuss."

"Yes, but after the day we've had, that would take too much effort."

"True," Finch consented. Then he sighed. "That wasn't the first time I listened to someone being killed. Remember the tape I played for you, the woman murdered by her husband in that hotel room?"

"How could I forget?"

"I heard it happen. And then after- About a year later, a young woman who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time - witnessed members of one gang taking out a group of their rivals - she was going to testify, but a dirty cop leaked the location of her safe house to the gang leader. I tried to warn her, I was on the phone with her when they kicked in the door. I heard the shots, the screams, I heard her begging for her life, begging me for help..."

"You tried," Reese said softly. He wasn't the one with the gun in his hand. Finch seemed to think they had so much in common, that their regrets made them the same, but to Reese it was the biggest difference of all. Finch regretted being unable to help people, while Reese regretted hurting them.

"It wasn't enough," Finch replied, picking up his glass and leaning back in his chair, his gaze distant as he slowly but determinedly emptied the glass. "It was never enough."

"Now, that's not completely true, now is it?" Reese asked, refilling Finch's glass and topping off his own. "I've spent some time studying your List, that bulletin board of failure you insist on keeping in the library, and not all of those people are dead. You saved some of them before you ever met me."

"A few," Finch admitted. "Mostly through dumb luck and random chance. It's...not surprising, perhaps, but certainly disheartening, how many people choose to ignore a warning from a stranger, especially when I could rarely be certain what the nature of the problem was. 'Hello, you don't know me, but you could be in danger, so be careful, and on the off chance you're planning to hurt someone, don't do it.' Yeah, right. And leaving an anonymous tip with the police was like shooting in the dark. I could never know if the cops were in on the crime or not. So yes, I had some marginal success, but it was nothing compared to what you and I have been able to accomplish. Mostly because of you, I'm not too proud to admit."

Reese shook his head. "We're a team, Finch, and the way I see it, it doesn't matter that you can't do what I do, because I can't do what you do, and what's more, without you, I wouldn't even be trying, I'd be drunk and homeless, hiding from the world and from myself. Without you, I'd be-" Reese realized what he was about to say just in time to not say it, picking up his glass of wine instead and taking a long drink.

"Two halves of a whole," Finch said, his voice quiet, his gaze distant. They finished their meal in relative silence, and when the food was gone, they sat and finished off the wine. As Reese shook the last few drops into Finch's glass, Finch gave an unexpected chuckle, a dry sound. "Should I have room service send up another bottle?" he asked.

"Do you ever drink anything stronger?"

"Occasionally. What do you have in mind?"

Reese drained his glass and rose from the table, the sudden change in elevation making the room wobble, but just for a moment. He wasn't drunk. Making his way over to the bed, he lifted the mattress, revealing an assortment of weapons and ammunition, several rolls of cash, and an unopened bottle of whiskey. He carried the bottle over and set it on the table in front of Finch.

"Still self-medicating?" Finch asked, what might have been a trace of worry in those pale blue eyes.

"I bought that two days after I met you," Reese said, sitting back down in his chair. "I didn't want to, but I needed to have it, just in case."

"In case of what?"

"In case this all fell apart. In case you weren't what I thought you were. In case I had to go back to what I was."

"And if we drink this," Finch asked, picking up the bottle, "will you need to buy another?"

Reese considered the whiskey, then shook his head. "No. I may not know exactly everything about you yet, but I do know that you are a good man, you're honest and brave, and I would trust you with my life any day of the week. As long as I have that, why would I need to drink?"

"Careful there, Mr. Reese," Finch said, looking distinctly uncomfortable. "I don't know if I'm the right man to be entrusted with your future happiness and wellbeing. I've let people down before."

"Who hasn't?" Reese replied. "So, are you going to open that bottle, or just hold it?"

"Do you have glasses, or shall we pass the bottle hobo-style?"

"What's wrong with these?" Reese picked up his empty wine glass and held it out toward Finch.

Finch gave it a sideways look and opened his mouth, but apparently a lecture on the proper usage of glasses, tumblers, snifters, and flutes was too much effort. He cracked the seal, twisted off the cap, and poured a neat inch into Reese's glass. He finished off the wine in his own glass before pouring himself a stiff drink. Reese downed half of his in one gulp and finished it in another. Finch, on the other hand, took a small swallow and made a face.

"How can you drink this stuff?"

"Same way I can eat those protein bars; as long as it serves its purpose, I try not to taste it."

"The purpose here being...?"

"To dull the pain and make the screaming stop," Reese replied, reaching over and taking the bottle. He poured himself another glass and leaned back in his chair with a sigh.

"I can drink to that," Finch said, and he tipped back the rest of his drink.

"Easy there, Harold," Reese said with a crooked smirk as he poured Finch another one. "I've had months of practice, but if you try to drink like me, you're going to wind up passed out on the floor."

"Haven't done that in a while," Finch said, sounding unconcerned and more than a little intoxicated. Reese was aware of his own inebriation as well, but he was too drunk to care or to stop the thoughts in his head from turning to words coming out of his mouth.

"I thought you didn't trust me," he said.

"Who said I did?"

"You don't seem worried about losing consciousness in my presence."

"Should I be?" Finch arched an eyebrow at him.

"I could do just about anything and you wouldn't be able to do a thing to stop me."

Finch regarded him for a moment. "Do you really think there would be anything I could do to stop you if you decided to do something to me fully conscious? I can't run, I can't fight, I don't like guns..." He took another drink. "So I suppose you're right, when it comes to my physical safety, I do trust you."

Reese picked up the bottle and refilled both their glasses. "Why? I've killed. I've maimed and tortured. I've murdered people, people I knew, people I worked with, people I cared about. What makes you safe?"

"I read your file," Finch said, holding up his wine glass and gently swirling the amber liquid in the bottom, "and while I don't know the truth of what happened in Ordos, I know you would not have killed Stanton or the others without a very good reason. As long as I don't give you a reason, I'm safe."

"You know who I am," Reese said, something at the back of his mind telling him that this probably wasn't the best topic of conversation, but he didn't feel like listening. "You know that I'm alive. Under the right circumstances, that would be reason enough."

"And you'd kill me?"

Reese nodded.

"You could do that?" Finch asked, but he still didn't sound worried. He just sounded curious. "You could just kill me?"

Sitting forward, Reese reached back and pulled his pistol out of his waistband. He let the gun settle comfortably into his hand, more familiar than an old pair of shoes, and then he glanced across the table at Finch. Finch was staring at the gun with obvious disease. Not fear, just dislike, just like any time he was around firearms.

After a moment, Reese set the pistol down on the table and picked his glass back up. "No, I don't suppose I could kill you."

"I knew I was right about you," Finch said, and emptied his glass. Reese reached to fill it again, but Finch shook his head. "I better not. It's getting late and my driver's wife hates it when I call after midnight."

Reese glanced at his watch. "It's already half past twelve."

"Well, I'll just call a cab, then."

"Or you could stay." Reese honestly didn't realize he had spoken the words aloud until he realized Finch was staring at him. Caught in the crosshairs, he fumbled for an escape. "Never mind, you probably need to feed you cat."

"What cat?"

Reese glanced toward the box in the hall and Finch turned stiffly, following his gaze.

"Ah, the bowl." Surprisingly, Finch chuckled. "I knew you wouldn't be able to resist."

"Would you have believed me if I'd said I didn't look?"

"Probably not," Finch said.

"That's what I thought, so I looked. Figured if you were going to get pissed at me, I might as well have done the crime."

"I'm not pissed - unless you're speaking in the British vernacular, where I believe the word means drunk. But I'm not upset about the box. I left it there in case I needed to distract you for a while, and those things are just props I use to flesh out different aliases, to make my residences look lived in. You'd be surprised what a stray sock and bowl of cat food can do."

"So...that was a fool's errand to give you time to break into my room and order dinner? And you don't have a cat?"

"Yes. And no; I'm allergic to most forms of animal dander."

Reese regarded the box again. That was a lot of trouble to go to just to make sure he'd eat. Finch could have called room service from anywhere, could have had them leave the food in his room, could have called him and told him to eat - not that he'd have been likely to listen. And why waste such a carefully constructed errand on this? Surely, Finch could have found a much better use of the time-

"Your room has only one bed," Finch said suddenly, interrupting Reese's thoughts.

Reese glanced over at the king-sized bed. "Yeah. So?"

"So you invited me to stay when you only have one bed."

"Yes..."

"So...were you serious, or was that just your unique sense of humor?"

Reese hesitated. He wasn't drunk enough to have lost all his inhibitions, all his caution, and deep down, he knew this could end very badly, but he couldn't concentrate, fresh emotional wounds raw and screaming at the surface, wounds he knew Finch carried as well, wounds that they could soothe together.

"I was serious," he said softly, "but I shouldn't have said it and I don't expect you to-"

"I'll stay."

Reese stopped, certain he was hearing things. "What?"

"I'll stay, just please don't be offended if I fall asleep or pass out in the middle of whatever we're doing. I'm exhausted and more than a little drunk."

"I just want to sleep, if that's all right with you," Reese said, still not entirely certain he wasn't already asleep and in the middle of some surreal dream.

"Probably for the best," Finch agreed, toeing off his shoes and laboriously leaning down to peel off his socks. "If you'll excuse me, I need to make use of your facilities."

Reese watched him totter off to the bathroom, his limp and the alcohol making him stagger terribly. Once the door had closed behind Finch, Reese rose to his own unsteady feet and ran a hand back though his hair. What the hell had just happened?

In a daze, he removed his shoes and socks, unbuttoned his cuffs, and picked up his coat and blazer from off the bed and hung them in the closet. He kept glancing toward the bathroom door, listening to the faint sound of running water. Finch was in there. Finch was going to stay, to sleep in his bed, to sleep with him..._just_ to sleep. And that had been Reese's idea, not Finch's. Finch had made no such restrictions.

_'...don't be offended if I fall asleep or pass out in the middle of whatever we're doing...'_ he'd said. He'd expected them to doing something, and Reese had, without realizing it, rejected him. Finch hid his feelings well, most of the time, but Reese imagined that the quiet man must have some issues with his self-confidence when it came to his age, appearance, and injuries, and Reese had basically slapped him with an unspoken 'let's just be friends'. And while Reese wanted them to be friends, that emptiness inside him that he typically ignored echoed with cries of longing for something more.

Finally, the bathroom door opened and Finch came out, his waistcoat unbuttoned and his tie in one hand. He stopped short at the sight of Reese, standing in the middle of the room, staring at him. "What?"

"I, uh...I was thinking, and..."

"You want me to leave?"

"No! That's not- I want you, Harold, as much as I have ever wanted any man or woman. I just...I didn't want you to think that I didn't."

"Mr. Reese," Finch said, and Reese cringed inwardly at the placating tone in his voice, "I appreciate the gesture, but I am not so drunk that I actually thought you might be attracted to me. It's okay."

But it wasn't okay. Because it wasn't true. Reese closed the distance between them, fast enough to make Finch take a startled step back. Grabbing the front of his shirt, Reese pulled Finch up against his chest and captured his mouth in a fiercely desperate kiss. Finch didn't move. After a moment, Reese drew back, breathless and, if he was honest, a little frightened. He needed this job, he needed this purpose, as much as he needed Finch to believe him.

Finch glanced away, one hand reaching up to adjust his glasses as his tongue darted out to wet his lips. "You didn't have to do that," he whispered.

"I wanted to," Reese replied. His hands slid up, fingertips grazing the slight stubble on Finch's cheeks, and he leaned down again, slower this time, letting his lips play across Finch's. This time, it was Finch who pulled away.

"I knew you had varied tastes, but I wasn't aware that old, crippled computer geeks were among them."

"Don't," Reese said, shaking his head. "Don't do that to yourself. You are so much more than that, so much more than a man like me deserves."

"Silver-tongued devil," Finch muttered, but when Reese leaned down again, Finch met him halfway, his lips parting, allowing Reese to explore his mouth. With a low groan, Reese slid his hands beneath Finch's vest, working it off his shoulders before starting on the buttons of his shirt. Tugging the tail of Finch's shirt out of his trousers, Reese let his hands wander up Finch's chest, savoring the warmth of his skin beneath his thin, white T-shirt.

Trembling hands, so deft upon a keyboard, fumbled with the buttons on Reese's shirt and were like a stiff slap upside his head. Finch was too drunk for this; they were _both _too drunk for this. Reluctantly, he drew back.

"Do you believe me now?" he asked.

Finch glanced away, over at the dark television. "I believe you want me to believe you," he said. "I believe you'd do almost anything to convince me. I believe that we're both very intoxicated, and I believe you might actually believe what you're saying, but I also believe that you're lonely and I'm here, and that's as deep as your professed attraction goes. But I don't care, because I'm lonely, too, and if we're lucky, tomorrow neither of us will even remember this." His gaze shifted to the TV again.

"Are you missing Letterman or something?" Reese asked, frowning.

"No, I just...I need to lie down. I'm feeling very light-headed all of a sudden." He shuffled over to the bed, working off his waistcoat and dress shirt before turning down the covers. "Do you have a preference to which side you sleep on?" he asked as he unbuckled his belt.

"No. I'm going to go brush my teeth." Because if he stayed out there and watched Finch finish undressing, he wasn't sure he could keep from doing something they both would regret. Closing the bathroom door behind him, he leaned on the counter and scowled at his reflection in the mirror. "You're fucking it all up," he told himself, but his reflection just scowled back at him and was no help at all.

He took his time brushing his teeth and washing up, hoping that a solution to his dilemma would miraculously appear, but when he finally turned out the light and opened the door, he was just as screwed as before. This was why he drank alone.

Emerging into the hotel room, Reese stopped at the foot of the bed and regarded Finch, lying on his back with pillows supporting his neck and shoulders, the covers drawn up to his chest, still wearing his undershirt and glasses, and fast asleep.

Walking around to Finch's side of the bed, Reese stared down at him for a long moment, trying to memorize the soft lines of his face. He looked younger. "Harold?" Reese asked, just to be sure, but Finch's face was too peaceful, too relaxed for him to be faking it. Reaching down, Reese trailed his fingers through the soft brown hair, then gently lifted off Finch's glasses and set them on the nightstand.

Turning out the lights, Reese finished undressing in the dark and slid under the covers on the far side of the bed in just his boxer-briefs, the sheets cold against his skin. He stared up at the ceiling, listening to the quiet rhythm of Finch's deep, slow breathing. If not for that sound, Reese might as well have been alone.

Reese resisted for several minutes, but finally gave in, slowly easing his body across the vast expanse of cool, crisp hotel sheet that separated them. He felt the warmth of Finch's body before he even touched his skin, pressing a bare leg up against the other man's. Reese stopped, listening, waiting, but Finch didn't wake. Settling himself against Finch's side, Reese lightly draped an arm over Finch's chest, his head sinking into the pillow beside Finch's. He held his breath as Finch shifted, his eyes closing as a warm hand moved to cover his own. Finch made a soft sound somewhere between a grunt and a sigh before growing still again.

Reese smiled to himself and let his body relax. "Goodnight, Harold," he whispered, warm and safe and happy for the first time in longer than he could remember.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note:** Short chapter and probably not what you were hoping for. I'll get the next one up quicker, I promise. Thanks for all the reviews! ^_^

* * *

><p>Finch opened his eyes, warm, golden morning light bathing blurry shapes in a room that neither sounded nor smelled familiar. It was too quiet, no ticking clocks, no humming electronics, no murmur of traffic outside the window, and the pillow beneath his head smelled of some cheap, floral fabric softener and something else, something that he recognized, but that didn't belong on his pillow. He lay there for a moment, trying to place the scent, before he reluctantly reached over to the nightstand and picked up his glasses.<p>

Pushing back the covers, he slipped his glasses on as he sat up, the change in position sending an unexpected wave of nausea rolling over him. He sat, taking short, shallow breaths as a cold sweat broke out over his body, leaving him shivering in just his undershirt and boxers. With a headache swiftly forming at the base of his skull, he looked around the room again, a hollow feeling of unease growing in the pit of his stomach.

He was in a hotel room, but not one of the hotels he owned. Not even one that usually stayed in. Something about it was familiar, though. There was a room service cart over by the table, empty plates, empty glasses, an empty wine bottle, and a nearly empty bottle of whiskey sitting upon it. Finch swallowed hard, the sour taste in his mouth leaving no doubt as to why the bottles were empty.

He groaned as he levered himself to his feet, fighting the dizziness and nausea. He knew better than to drink. Something must have happened, something awful, but he couldn't remember what. That was what the drinking was for, but it still made him uneasy not to know. Taking slow, shuffling steps, he made his way into the bathroom, trying to decide if it was really better to resist the churning in his stomach, or if he should just get it over with and go from there. He hated vomiting, though.

After relieving himself, he went to the sink, eyes searching for the complimentary bottle of mouthwash as he washed and dried his hands. He found an empty bottle, as well as someone else's razor and toothbrush. Unease quickly turned to alarm as he looked around, noticing the damp towels in the hamper, the moisture inside the shower stall. There had been two plates on the table, two glasses. Who else was there? And where were they?

Emerging from the bathroom, Finch gathered up his clothes as quickly as possible, pulling on his trousers and dress shirt, shoving his feet into his shoes without bothering with his socks, stuffing socks and tie into his pockets as he grabbed his waistcoat and jacket. Damn it, what had he done? He checked his wallet, but all his money and credit cards were there, and his keys were safely in his pocket. Glancing around the room, he was surprised to see nothing that could have belonged to the other occupant, no clothes, no luggage, nothing besides the two plates and two glasses to suggest that he hadn't spent the night alone.

Finch took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He was being ridiculous. Even before his injuries, he'd never been one to engage in casual sex, and he didn't think he could get drunk enough to be intimate with someone now, with the stiffness and scarring, the pity and revulsion. He couldn't bear it.

So he'd had dinner with someone, they'd shared a bottle of wine, and then...He picked up the whiskey, frowning at the label. It was the same brand Reese had been drinking on the subway, and in that hotel room-

Finch gasped, the bottle slipping from his grasp and falling to the carpet. _Reese._ He remembered sitting at the table, eating, drinking, talking with Reese. Why? What was Reese doing there? Finch sank into the chair, closing his eyes as he pressed his knuckles to his forehead. He was worried about Reese, he wanted to make sure he was okay, to make sure he ate a decent meal. He'd come to the hotel, he'd spoofed the key card, he'd ordered dinner...This was Reese's room.

Reese had held him. Finch opened his eyes, his mouth suddenly dry. He could feel Reese's strong arms around him, holding him while he cried. And Reese had cried, too. What had happened? A number...they'd lost a number. A man, a father, his children-

Finch again felt like he was going to be sick. Mr. Sutton, killing his children, and Finch had heard it all, he'd been helpless to stop it, the police too late, Reese busy with another case...Finch peeled off his glasses and covered his face with his hand, weeping all over again.

When he was able to get control of himself, he dried his face on one of the cloth napkins on the table, put his glasses back on, and rose stiffly to his feet, his head pounding, stomach churning. Clearly, drinking was not a feasible solution to anything, it just left him with more problems, questions he couldn't find the answers to. Why had Finch awoken in Reese's bed? Whose idea had it been for him to stay? Had Reese slept with him, or left? Was sleeping all they had done? And where the hell was Reese now?

Limping across the room, Finch paused in front of the entertainment center, bending at the waist to look back past the TV at the tiny camera he'd hidden there. Every time Reese relocated to a different hotel, within a day, Finch found it and placed a hidden camera somewhere in the room. He'd told himself it was just a precaution, just in case something happened to Reese, and he'd never looked at the footage the camera captured, he'd never had a reason to. But he did now.


	6. Chapter 6

Head still throbbing, Finch closed and locked the door of one of his apartments, dropping his waistcoat and jacket on the sofa as he headed for the kitchen. First things first. He drew himself a glass of water and fished two aspirin out of the bottle, swallowing them down as he turned and headed for the bathroom. Laying his glasses on the counter, he stripped off his clothes and climbed into the shower, letting the hot water pound down on the back of his neck, easing the tightness in his scarred muscles.

A million thoughts vied for attention inside his head, but the most insistent ones centered on Reese. Finch knew from his extensive research on the man that Reese had had a wide range of sexual encounters over the years, with both male and female partners. However, the vast majority of his male lovers had been assets, people he needed to get close to during the course of his work for the CIA. The instances that fell outside this range were inconsequential, moments of convenience.

Was that what last night had been? Convenient? They were drunk, Finch was there - what other reason did they need? And that was fine. They were both rational, mature adults. Finch couldn't imagine that Reese had taken advantage of him, or had forced him into anything. Honestly, Finch wouldn't have been surprised if _he_ had been the one to start it. He'd been attracted to Reese for months before they ever met face to face, just from the pictures Finch had found of Reese with his unit in Afghanistan. He was a damn fine looking man.

What bothered Finch was that he couldn't remember it. A night with a man like John Reese should have been unforgettable, but from the empty wine bottle on, it was just a blur. He remembered drinking, but not how much; he remembered talking, but not about what; he thought he remembered thinking about leaving, and there was a possibility that Reese had kissed him somewhere in there, but he wasn't sure.

Finch drew a shuddering breath and ran his hands back through his wet hair. Had they kissed? He closed his eyes, imagining Reese's warm lips against his own, those big hands pushing at his clothes, unbuttoning his shirt-

He gasped, his body responding with far more enthusiasm than it had in recent years, more than it would from an empty fantasy. Did that mean there was some truth to his imaginings? Had Reese stripped him of his clothes, had he taken him to bed, had he touched him in the dark, under the covers? Finch swallowed hard, his mouth dry, unable to stop thinking about those hands; long, elegant fingers, callused skin, always bearing the scent of gunpowder and coffee, two things that Finch couldn't stand, but on Reese it was like cologne.

His body aching, Finch let his hand slide over slick skin, fingers tracing the deep scars on his hip and thigh, seams where the surgeons had pieced him back together. Had Reese seen them, touched them? Reese had scars of his own. Finch thought - he _hoped_ - that the ugly marks wouldn't matter to a man like Reese, but sometimes it was better to not know than to get the wrong answer.

Groaning low in his throat, Finch wrapped a hand around his stiff shaft. God, how long had it been since he'd even bothered to touch himself? He could think of only a handful of times since his injury, lonely, dissatisfying moments, stained by the bitterness of knowing no one would else would ever want to touch him again. As he stroked himself, he wondered if Reese had touched him, if those big hands had slipped into his boxers, the skill Reese was sure to possess making Finch whimper and moan. Had he begged? Had he come? Had he called Reese's name? Had Reese let him return the favor?

Finch shuddered, resting his shoulder against the tiled wall to take the weight off his damaged leg as he pictured Reese, dark skin bare and glistening with sweat, blue eyes hooded, pupils blown, lips parted as he panted-

"Oh, shit- John!" Finch came hard, his cry loud and hollow in the enclosed space, his entire body shaking as he stroked himself through the intense climax. For a moment he just stood there, savoring the euphoria, the combination of heat and endorphins easing the constant, dull throbbing at the base of his neck, but he was wasting water and time. The aspirin were starting to kick in and he was slowly regaining functionality.

Half an hour later, he was dried and dressed, a cup of hot tea in his hand as he headed down to the street and his waiting town car. He had his driver drop him off a few blocks from the library, the walk a necessary evil; his hip ached by the time he finally was able to lower himself into his chair, but he needed the exercise. Too many greasy take-out meals behind the computer were starting to take their toll, and packing around a few extra pounds would just make his leg hurt that much more.

He checked the Machine first and found a new number waiting for him. While the search program he'd written scoured the internet and various secured databases he shouldn't have had access to, Finch accessed the data storage locker that hosted the recordings from all the hidden cameras he maintained. Most watched his residences, several kept an eye on the library, there was the doll cam that spied on Carter, and there was the one in Reese's room. Finch stared at the file from the previous night, his heartbeat quickening at the thought of what he might find.

"Good morning, Finch."

Finch jumped, glancing up from the monitor as Reese came sauntering up the corridor, doing his best to appear like it was just any other day, but Finch could see the apprehension in his walk, his normally fluid and confident stride just a little off, and Finch suddenly realized just how much attention he paid to the way the man moved.

"I need to put a bell on you," Finch said evenly, closing the window to the storage locker and turning to one of his other monitors. "We have a new number." The search was still running - sometimes it took hours to comb through all the available data - but it had supplied him the basic information. "Her name is Margaret Wallace, thirty-eight years old, divorced mother of two, works at PS 20 teaching third grade. I only just got the number, so I don't have much more than that, I'm afraid, but I'll text you her home address and let you know what else I find."

"All right," Reese said, standing in the mouth of the hallway. Just standing there. Finch could feel his gaze, the weight of his unspoken words, like a storm drawing near, and rather than wait for whatever might come out of Reese's mouth, Finch decided on a preemptive strike.

"Mr. Reese," he said, his eyes on his monitors as he spoke, "I hope you're not feeling uncomfortable about what happened last night. Honestly, I don't remember much after we finished the wine, but whatever happened, we're both adults and I'm sure we can find a way to move past it."

"Nothing happened," Reese said quietly. "We just fell asleep. Sorry I wasn't there when you woke up; Carter needed more information on the Prescott case so I met her for coffee. I hope it wasn't too disorientating, waking up with a hangover in a strange place."

"It wasn't the first time," Finch replied, not sure which thought made him feel more disappointed, that Reese was lying to him about last night's events, or that he was telling the truth. He regarded the younger man for a moment. "Was there something else?"

Reese shook his head. "No, I just..." He gave a small, crooked smile and a one-shoulder shrug. "Just wanted to make sure you were okay."

"I'm fine, Mr. Reese," Finch said dryly. "_I'm_ not the one in imminent peril, Margaret Wallace is."

"All right, I can take a hint," Reese said, turning on his heel and striding down the hall. "I'll call you when I get to her place."

"I'm sending the address now."

Reese acknowledged him with a wave over his shoulder. Finch watched him disappear from sight, then pulled out his phone, thumb tapping the keys as he input the message and sent it. Setting the phone down on the table, he cast a stiff look toward the hall before opening the data-storage locker again. He had to look; he had to see for himself. He clicked on the file, the distorted image from the fish-eye camera filling the screen, and fast forwarded until a figure entered the frame. His lips pressed into a thin line as he watched himself limp across the room, then he advanced the recording again, past the arrival of room service, past Reese storming in, gun drawn, past all the drinking.

He returned the footage to normal speed, watching himself remove his shoes and socks before heading to the bathroom. On the screen, Reese ran a hand back through his hair, looking mildly distraught. He tidied up a bit, hanging up his jackets, and then stood in the middle of the room, waiting.

Finch found himself leaning forward in his chair, struggling to remember what happened next. It was all a blank. On the screen, he returned from the bathroom, there was a conversation between him and Reese, and then Reese lunged across the room at him. Finch tensed, drawing a sharp breath, as he watched Reese grab the front of his shirt and pull him close, kissing him hard. So it wasn't just a fantasy.

They kissed and talked a little, then kissed some more, Reese working his clothes off. Finch watched, breathless, as his alter-ego fumbled with the buttons on Reese's shirt. Then Reese pulled away. They talked a bit more, then the Finch on the screen headed for the bed and Reese disappeared into the bathroom. Finch watched himself undress, stripping down to his boxers and undershirt before climbing into bed, arranging the pillows, and gingerly laying his broken body down.

Finch waited, his gaze riveted to the corner of the screen where Reese would reappear, and after what seemed like forever, Reese returned. He walked over to the bed, looking down at the prone form of his employer, his expression unreadable. Finch paused the recording, studying that chiseled face, and he would have given every cent he had to know what Reese was thinking in that moment.

Finch resumed playback, watching as Reese's lips moved, forming a single word. Finch rewound and let it play again, a slight frown creasing his brow. What was he saying? He had to watch it several more times before he finally recognized his own name. _Harold_. Letting it play on, Finch arched his eyebrows, shocked to see Reese step close, trail his fingers through the sleeping Finch's hair, and then carefully remove his glasses.

It had been evident from the detailed file Finch had compiled that at one time, Reese had been a very kind and gentle man. He had statements from past lovers and old friends, pictures, articles praising his bravery and compassion on the battlefield...and then the CIA had gotten a hold of him, bleeding every trace of humanity out of him, ridding him of such 'weakness', turning him into their trained dog, a cold, heartless assassin. In the months since Finch had found him, he'd watched the life slowly return to Reese's eyes, the softness to his smile, but he'd never expected to see such tenderness, and certainly not directed at _him_. What had he ever done to deserve such an honor?

On the video, Reese turned out the lights, but the camera was equipped with night-vision, the image shifting to shades of blue-green. Reese undressed, stripping down to his boxer-briefs, then walked around to the far side of the bed and climbed in. Finch waited, but Reese just lay there. Finally, Finch let out a long sigh. Reese had been telling the truth; nothing happened. He knew he should have been relieved, but he wasn't. He let it play for another minute, then reached up to stop the recording, but froze as a movement on the screen caught his eye. Reese raised his head, looking across the wide, king-sized bed, and Finch bit the inside of his lip as Reese began to inch toward the sleeping man on the screen.

Moving almost hesitantly, Reese slid up against Finch, lying on his side, his head on Finch's pillow and his arm resting on Finch's chest. And Reese considered _that_ nothing? Finch sat back in his chair, one hand absently adjusting his glasses. Why had Reese lied? Embarrassment? Morning-after regret? Or had he thought Finch would be uncomfortable around him if he knew? He watched the footage for a few moments more, then hit fast forward again.

Finch knew he was usually a light sleeper, shifting almost constantly to try to relieve the pain in his back and leg, except on the rare occasions when he succumbed to the sweet oblivion promised him by the powerful narcotics he hated taking. Looked like he could add whiskey to his list of sleep aids. He hardly moved all night, not until almost dawn when he rolled onto his side, facing away from Reese.

Reese, on the other hand, tossed and turned all night, the sheet tangling around his legs as he moved back across the bed to his own side, pulling the covers partly off of Finch. Dawn came and the darkness lifted, the night vision switching off. It was almost six when Reese began to stir, pushing back the covers, and Finch slowed the video to normal speed, watching Reese swing his legs out of bed and slowly sit up, cradling his head in his hands in a passable impression of how Finch had felt when he'd woken up that morning.

After a minute, Reese raised his head and looked back over his shoulder. He just sat there, staring at the sleeping man in his bed, for so long that once again, Finch would have given anything to know what he was thinking. When Reese finally turned away, Finch expected him to get up and disappear into the bathroom, but again Reese surprised him. The man slipped his long legs back into bed and scooted over behind the still soundly sleeping Finch on the screen, pulling the blankets back over both of them as Reese spooned him.

Finch swallowed hard, shifting in his chair as he tried not to think about Reese's morning wood pressed against his ass. He wasn't even sure his body could tolerate the stress of sex anymore, but if he'd been conscious, he was fairly certain he'd have pushed his pain threshold to its limits trying to find out. It had been so long...

But before he could get physically worked up again, a small, innocent movement on the screen caught his eye. Reese, lying there staring at the back of Finch's head, brought one hand up and slowly trailed the tip of his index finger down the back of the sleeping man's neck. Finch, sitting in his chair in the empty library, felt the touch in the long scar over his fused vertebrae, a warm, tingling sensation in the knotted ridge of tissue. He reached up, rubbing gingerly through the collar of his shirt.

Reese wrapped his arms around Finch and appeared to be nuzzling or kissing the back of his neck - Finch couldn't tell which from the angle of the camera. On the screen, the sleeping man began to stir and Finch leaned forward in his chair, his tongue darting out to moisten dry lips. He certainly didn't remember _this _happening.

Suddenly, Reese raised his head, looking toward the far side of the room, then he carefully drew away, the Finch on the screen settling back into peaceful slumber. Reese got out of bed and crossed the room, moving out of view, but returning a moment later with his phone in hand. Apparently, he hadn't been lying about Carter wanting more information. He headed into the bathroom and Finch advanced until he reappeared, a towel wrapped around his waist.

Finch knew he was staring, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from the bare, muscular arms, the broad shoulders, the slight softness around his middle, the towel riding low on his hips, showing the still pink scar on his abdomen but hiding the one on his thigh. There were others that Finch could make out - a fading bullet wound high on his shoulder, the long, thin streak of an old knife wound on his back, faint silver flecks down his side from shrapnel, what looked like a burn on one forearm - but those marks were earned through combat, they were the scars of a survivor, a warrior. They weren't a constant reminder of how helpless and fragile he was, how his own blind arrogance had cost him everything that ever mattered to him.

As Finch watched, Reese crouched beside the bed and pulled a black duffel bag out from underneath, retrieving clean socks and underwear. After shoving the bag back under the bed, he straightened up and his towel slipped. He made a reflexive grab for it, then finished pulling it off and let it drop to the foot of the bed, nearly giving Finch a coronary as a glorious and unobstructed view of Reese's ass appeared on screen. Reese stood there for a moment, completely naked, his attention on the sleeping Finch in the bed, then he pulled on his underwear and proceeded to finish dressing.

Out of breath, Finch sat back in his chair, but Reese wasn't finished yet. He slipped into his coat, grabbed his pistol off the table, and headed for the door, but stopped at the foot of the bed. He hesitated a moment, then walked around to the side where Finch was sleeping, smoothed the tousled hair back from Finch's brow, and then leaned down, placing a light kiss on Finch's temple before leaving.

Finch stared at the screen, a slow frown drawing his eyebrows together. He was not by nature a trusting man, but neither was he unreasonably skeptical; he tended to believe his own eyes, but this was going too far. A lonely and drunken Reese kissing him was not that unbelievable. Reese cuddling up to him in bed did not quite push the boundaries of reality. Reese kissing the scar on the back of his neck was the stuff of his fantasies, but it still wasn't completely implausible. But all three taken together, plus that last kiss on the forehead, could only mean one thing - Reese knew about the camera.

The man was former CIA - _of course_ he had found it - but why hadn't he said anything, why not disable it? Then again, setting Finch up and putting on this elaborate display was much more in character with Reese's often quirky sense of humor. Yes, that had to be it. Reese would not do anything deliberately malicious, but he had made his point in no uncertain terms. With a sigh, Finch turned off the recording and went back to checking the information on Margaret Wallace.


	7. Chapter 7

The search on Ms. Wallace had turned up a few more bits and pieces - she was the youngest of four children, she'd been nominated for an Educator of the Year award in 2009, she had almost twelve thousand dollars in credit card debt, her mother died of cancer three years ago and her father was in a care facility with Alzheimer's - but nothing important, nothing that cast any light on why this woman's number came up.

Finch's stomach rumbled and he reached for his mug of tea, but it was stone cold, and cold tea never did anything to help him ignore his hunger. He glanced at his watch, then picked up his cell, calling up the text he'd sent to Reese to see what time he'd sent it. If traffic was fairly typical for a Thursday morning, Reese wouldn't reach Ms. Wallace's apartment for almost an hour. It would take at least that for the search to finish running. After only a moment's hesitation, Finch heaved himself up out of his chair and headed for the door.

There were several decent diners within walking distance of the library, but Finch didn't want to risk compromising their headquarters. The less he was seen in the area, the less he stood out, the more secure the building would remain. So he made his way a few blocks uptown and hailed a cab, giving the address for his favorite little diner. He had a craving for eggs Benedict.

He ate quickly, left a generous tip, and was sitting in the back of the cab on his way back to the library when Reese called.

"Yes, Mr. Reese?" he answered.

"I'm in," Reese said. "I'll copy her hard drive and set up a camera or two, then see what else I can find. Do you have anything for me?"

"Not yet. Although if you have a minute, I'd like to talk about last night."

"Oh?" He sounded wary. "I thought we already dealt with that."

"Not quite," Finch said, digging into his pocket as the taxi driver pulled over half a dozen blocks from the library. Finch paid the man and climbed out. "I thought you said nothing happened."

"That's what I said. Why? Do you remember it differently?"

"I remember you kissing me."

Silence. Then, "I suppose I might have. I...we were very drunk."

"Are you sure the camera didn't have anything to do with it?"

"What camera?"

"The one I put in your hotel room. Don't pretend you didn't-"

"You've been spying on me? For how long? And why? What gives you the right?"

Finch hesitated. Reese sounded genuinely angry. "Are you really telling me that you didn't know?"

"No, I didn't know, or I'd have said something before this. Do you really distrust me _that_ much? Bad enough that you know _everything_ about me, but I can't even get a little privacy in my own hotel room?"

"I never watched any of it, not until this morning. It was just a precaution."

"And you think that makes it all right?"

Finch stiffened, scowling down at the sidewalk as he limped along. "Have you finished placing the cameras in Ms. Wallace's apartment yet?"

"Don't give me that, Finch - this is nothing like what you did to me-"

"Nor is it like what you did to me," Finch responded, stopping at the corner to wait for the light to change, his voice low to make it harder for people to overhear. "I would be hard pressed to call that 'nothing'."

"I see. So the fact that I kissed you while you were passed out drunk in my bed justifies you invading my privacy?"

"No, but the fact that you lied to me about it does. I trusted you and you lied to me-"

"I was trying to minimize the damage. I can't lose this job-"

"Jesus, John, I'm not going to _fire_ you. I need you." He stopped and took a deep breath. "Look, I'm sorry about the camera. I'll disable it as soon as I get the chance. And what happened last night is not a big deal, and certainly not grounds for termination. You'd have to..." He struggled to think up a heinous enough action. "To shoot me and burn down the library before I'd consider firing you. But don't lie to me, please."

"Sorry, Finch. I was hung-over and not thinking clearly. You're right, it wasn't a big deal. Let's just forget about it."

"That would probably be best," Finch conceded, though it was not the outcome he'd wanted. However, his working relationship with Reese came first, so if this was what the other man wanted, then Finch would have to deal with it. It wasn't like he'd never done such a thing before. He'd kept his feelings for Nathan a secret for years to preserve their friendship, and just because it had eventually, if ever so briefly, worked out between him and Nathan, he couldn't expect or even hope for the same resolution with Reese. The two men couldn't have been more different.

Finch cleared his throat. "How do you plan on force pairing Ms. Wallace's cell? Schools these days have more security than court houses or airports."

"Gotta keep the kids safe," Reese replied with his slightly teasing lilt. "I thought I'd hang around, maybe talk to the neighbors, visit the local businesses, find the good rooftops - the usual stuff - while I wait for her to come home."

"All right, I'll call if I find anything important."

"And could you create a cover identity that would get me into the school, just in case?"

"I'll get right on it," Finch said. "Anything else?"

"No, that should do it."

"All right." Finch grappled for something else to say; he didn't want to end the conversation with business lest Reese think he wanted a strictly business relationship. Just because he couldn't have what he wanted didn't mean they couldn't be friends. "Did you get to have a latte this morning?"

"What? Oh. No, I forgot to look."

"Take a guess."

"Uh...burgundy?"

"Good guess, although I suspect you subconsciously did notice. Either that or it's just your lucky day."

"I could do with a lucky day," Reese said with a chuckle, "and a latte. Thanks, Harold. Talk to you later." Reese hung up and Finch looked down at his navy blue tie. It was just a small untruth, and he was pretty sure he had at least one burgundy tie in the library that he could change into before Reese saw him again.

He glanced up the street, frowning at the sight of a man loitering on the sidewalk outside the library. He was mid-thirties, neatly groomed and dressed in a black suit and long black overcoat, slowly pacing and casting impatient glances up and down the road, as though he were waiting for someone. Probably not a mugger, but one could never really tell. Finch kept his phone in his hand, just in case, as he approached.

Finch kept his gaze resolutely ahead as he passed the man, ignoring the ache in his leg as he walked by the alleyway entrance. He just couldn't risk anyone seeing him enter the 'abandoned' building. There was a little cafe a couple of blocks over with a nice outdoor seating area on the wide sidewalk. He could have another cup of tea and rest his leg while he waited for the man to go on about his business.

"Excuse me?" the man said suddenly and Finch stopped, turning back to face him. The man walked toward him, pulling something out of his inside coat pocket - a photograph. "Have you seen this man?"

A cop. No, the clothes were too nice and too generic to be a plainclothes officer or even a detective. More likely FBI or- Finch glanced at the photo, his heart darting up into his throat. It was a black and white surveillance still from Congressman Delancey's fundraiser and dead center of the picture stood Reese. Even worse, standing beside him was Finch himself.

He didn't have time to respond, or to run, not that he could have managed the latter. A big, shiny black SUV roared up, breaks squealing as it skidded to a stop against the curb beside him. The man with the picture grabbed him and shoved him toward the vehicle as both side doors opened and more men in suits jumped out. One threw a black cloth bag over his head, knocking his glasses off. He heard them hit the sidewalk.

Heart pounding, he didn't even try to fight. He hesitated only a moment before tossing his cell under the vehicle as they jostled him into the car. Someone shoved him face down onto the floor of the back seat and he cried out, pain like a sharp spike in his fused vertebrae making pale gray starbursts explode before his closed eyes. No one seemed to care. His arms were pulled behind his back and secured with a pair of handcuffs. Doors slammed and the SUV roared away as hands searched his pockets, taking everything. But they didn't get his phone.

If he had kept the phone, Reese could have tracked the GPS to find him and rescue him, but that phone was also set up to track Reese, to text him, to call him. Throwing it under the car hadn't even been a hard decision. If these men wanted Reese, they were going to get no help from Finch. Besides, Finch had a feeling he'd be long dead before Reese even realized he'd been taken.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> I know, I know, bad author - no biscuit. But cliffhangers are so fun! I look forward to your annoyed reviews ^_^


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note:** Technically, it's Friday somewhere, lol. Great episode tonight. But another two weeks before the next new one? Not fair! Anyway, I hope you enjoy, and just so you're warned, this chapter contains a bit of torture, nothing violent or bloody though. Thanks for all the reviews! Reading them really makes my day! ^_^

* * *

><p>He couldn't tell how long he was in the car or how far they drove, he just knew he was glad the ride was over when the vehicle finally lurched to a stop. He could hardly breathe, his face against the floor mat. He was dragged out of the SUV, a man on each arm holding him up as he was rushed along, the spike in his neck now taking residence in his hip as he limped and stumbled.<p>

He was gasping for breath, the air inside the hood hot and stale, when they finally stopped. He was shoved down onto a hard wooden chair and the bag was jerked off, leaving him blinking and squinting into the suddenly bright light. Without his glasses, he could make out little more than colors and blurry shapes, but he was pretty sure he was in a hotel room, the bed sitting just a few feet in front of him, three men in dark suits standing against the wall to his right, near the door.

"P-please, don't hurt me," Finch whispered. "If it's money you want, I can pay-"

"Where's John?" The voice was quiet, calm, and made Finch's blood run cold. Per Reese's request and against his own better judgment, he'd been keeping an eye on Carter, making sure the CIA didn't come down on her, so he had no trouble recognizing the soft, emotionless voice of Agent Mark Snow.

Finch licked dry lips. "John who? I- I know several men by that name."

"The one in the photograph." Something was held in front of his face, but it was just a blurry gray rectangle.

"I'm sorry, I don't have my glasses. They were knocked off when someone put a bag over my head. Who are you people? What do you want with me?"

"I'll ask the questions, Mr. Wren," Snow said and Finch inwardly cringed. That was one of his oldest aliases, the one Will knew him as, and now he'd have to burn it, destroy all evidence, erase all data- "Or do you prefer Finch? Or is it Burdette? Do you ever have trouble remembering who you are on any given day?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Finch said. "My name is Harold Wren, I sell insurance, and the only Johns that I know are my doorman, a guy at work, and the doctor who does my physical therapy every week. I can't help you."

"All right, Mr. Wren, we can play this game for a while," Snow said, walking over and taking a seat on the end of the bed, facing Finch. "You're not going to like what happens when I get tired of playing, though. The man I'm looking for is tall, in his early forties with dark hair starting to go gray and blue eyes. I have here a picture of him, standing beside a man who looks uncannily like you, at a fundraiser for that congressman who was assassinated a few months ago. Do you remember that?"

"Of course."

"And do you remember meeting this man?"

"I-I think so, but he said his name was Jack, not John."

"And what else did he tell you?"

"Not much," Finch said. "Some political small talk, the weather, traffic - nothing important. Can I go now?"

"Sure. Just tell me where John is and you can go."

"I don't know where he is. We just talked for a few minutes that one time. You have to believe me."

"No, Mr. Wren, I don't have to. And I don't believe you, either. I was trained to recognize liars and to get the truth out of them. I'm tired of this game now, so either tell me where John is, or I'll find another game to play, one that I guarantee you will not win."

Finch was well aware of CIA interrogation and torture tactics from Reese's file, and for the first time in his life, he found that knowledge was not power. Knowing what was going to happen to him did not make it any easier to face. But he could not hand Reese over to these people. The man had been betrayed enough in his life.

"I don't know where he is," Finch said. He jumped as a sudden loud sound shattered the silence, a sound he struggled to place until a strip of duct tape was placed across his mouth. If they wanted him to talk, why gag him? That defeated the purpose...unless the purpose was to keep him from screaming. He sucked air greedily through his nostrils, his heart pounding as the tape was wrapped around his ankles, binding his legs together. He looked up at the blurry face of Agent Snow as the black hood was placed back over his head.

"You might be interested to know that it was John who perfected this technique," Snow said as Finch felt himself being lifted and carried, that inhumanly calm voice following. "He saw what was being done in Guantanamo Bay, the waterboarding of prisoners suspected of planning terrorist activities, and he felt he could improve upon it. And he was right."

Finch was set down on something cold and hard, something with curved sides- He was in the bathtub, Snow's voice echoing in the enclosed space. "This is going to be rather unpleasant, but don't worry, the quickest we've ever killed anyone doing this was an hour and a half, and he had a heart condition. So just sit tight and think about what you've done to get yourself in this predicament."

Finch drew a sharp breath through his nose, sucking the heavy cloth up against his face, as the shower sputtered to life, cold water raining down upon him. It soaked into his clothes and into the hood, wetting him to the skin and making him shiver. The cold made the damaged muscles in his hip ache and he shifted about, trying to relieve the pain, his wet leather shoes slipping against the porcelain, squeaking and sliding.

The effort left him out of breath and he lay struggling for air, the bag getting harder and harder to breathe through as the fibers soaked up the water. He was freezing, his teeth chattering behind the tape, the water running through the bag and down his face, the saturated material clinging to his skin. He drew a hard breath and sucked water into his nostrils. He snorted, trying to clear his nose, but the next breath was the same. He choked, coughed, but the tape wouldn't let him clear his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut, his heart pounding against his ribcage.

The water shut off and the bag was lifted, the tape ripped off, making the skin around his mouth sting and burn. Finch hacked and choked, spitting water and mucus into the bottom of the tub where he lay. He could feel the water in his lungs, the heavy rattle when he breathed, but he managed to look up at Snow, crouched beside the tub.

"That was ten minutes," the agent said. "Do you want to see what half an hour feels like, or are you going to tell me where John is?"

"Do your worst," Finch gasped, his voice harsh and raspy, "because I will never tell you where he is." There was no point in pretending anymore; even if he'd been telling the truth, Snow wasn't going to let him go.

Snow leaned close. "Are you sure you want to die for him? He's not worth it."

"Yes, he is," Finch replied. He closed his eyes, trying not to flinch as someone used a towel to dry his face before applying another strip of tape over his mouth. The wet hood was placed back over his head and the water hissed back to life, colder than before, if that was even possible. Finch tried to stay calm, to control his breathing and keep from inhaling the water that seeped through the hood, but the cold made him out of breath. He snorted water, his sinuses burning, the liquid running down the back of his throat.

"Keep an eye on him," he heard Snow say. "I'm going out for coffee." Finch heard a door close. He turned his head from side to side, as far as his neck would let him, but the pain just made each breath sharper. He choked and tried to swallow the water and mucus that filled his airway. He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting the panic that clawed at the inside of his chest, but he couldn't breathe. His legs kicked out, the soles of his shoes squeaking across the wet porcelain, finding no purchase, the muscles in his injured hip cramping from the cold, knotting up, a tight tangle of barbed wire beneath his skin.

He sucked air through his nostrils, a wet, rattling sound. He couldn't breathe. He choked, coughed through his nose, expelling mucus onto the inside of the bag, which stuck to his skin as he drew another thick, desperate breath. _He couldn't breathe._ There was a crash and shouting, a loud _pop pop...pop pop_, but he just wanted air, he wanted to breathe, nothing else mattered.

He flinched as the hood was suddenly jerked off his head, cold water splashing against his face, but only for a moment. A figure leaned over him, clawing at the tape over his mouth, ripping it away, and Finch gasped, his lungs rattling. It felt like someone was sitting on his chest. He coughed, gagged, and vomited, spitting up water and phlegm all over himself.

"I...won't...tell you," he panted, barely louder than a whisper.

"Harold, it's all right," said a familiar voice. "I'm getting you out of here."

"John?" It couldn't be. There was no way Reese could have found him. "How-"

"Not now," Reese said, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him to his feet. Finch cried out in surprise and pain as Reese suddenly jerked him off balance, lowered his shoulder to Finch's gut, and lifted the smaller man off his feet. Hardly able to breathe, Finch fought the urge to vomit again as Reese turned, the room spinning around him. Finch let himself hang, head down, watching Reese's blurry feet run upside-down along a dark green carpet, down a long hall and outside into a bitter, biting wind. Finch tensed against the cold, sending a burning lance of agony sliding down his neck, all the way down his spine and into his hip.

"Hang on, Harold," Reese said, and Finch squeezed his eyes shut as the world suddenly righted itself. Reese set him on his feet and leaned him back against the side of a car. With Reese's shoulder no longer depressing his diaphragm, Finch drew a loud, rattling breath and coughed, feeling like his lungs were being shredded as he spit out another mouthful of viscous fluid.

Reese stood beside the open door, one hand on Finch's shoulder, his head turning back and forth as he kept a look out. "Finch, we gotta go," he said, finally. "You can cough it up in the car." Finch allowed himself to be helped into the back seat of the vehicle.

"John!" The shout was punctuated by a gunshot and the echoing _ping_ of the bullet striking metal.

"Get down!" Reese ordered, shoving Finch over onto his side across the back. The door slammed and another shot rang out. Finch jumped as the window shattered, spraying him with tiny squares of safety glass. Two more gunshots echoed inside the car, seeming to come from right above Finch's head. The car roared to life, Finch almost rolling off the seat and onto the floor as Reese slammed it into reverse, tires squealing as he pulled away from the building.

Finch heard the sound of breaking glass again and another gunshot so close it left his ears ringing. The car screeched to a stop and Finch yelped in pain as his head snapped forward. "Hold on," Reese cautioned, a little easier said than done since Finch's hands were still cuffed behind his back. Reese threw the car into drive and stomped on the gas, flinging Finch back against the back of the seat as he sped off, another salvo of gunshots ringing out behind them.


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note:** I apologize in advance if this chapter goes on for a bit. Psychological hurt/comfort and the aftermath and recovery from torture is kind of a kink of mine, so this chapter might be a bit self-indulgent. Kind of hard to be objective, lol.

The next chapter will switch back to Reese's POV. Thanks for the reviews! ^_^

* * *

><p>Finch lay gasping, every breath thick and agonizing, and he couldn't keep from coughing, having no choice but to spit on the floor and unable to wipe away the spittle that dangled from his lips. As his breathing slowly quieted, his desperate need for oxygen resolved, he became aware of his aching body, his skin so cold it hurt. He shivered, stabbing pain in his tense muscles, a puddle forming in the seat as his clothes dripped. But he was alive.<p>

"How...did you...find me?" he asked, shocked by the hoarseness of his own voice.

Reese didn't answer for a moment, his attention on the road ahead and the traffic behind. "It's SOP to choose a ground floor room as close to the interior of the hotel as possible, windows facing a courtyard or alley."

"No, I mean...how did you know...I was at the hotel? That I'd been taken?"

"What do you mean?" Reese asked, frowning as he glanced over his shoulder. "You sent me a text."

"No, I didn't. I destroyed my cell so they couldn't use it to find you."

Silence filled the car. "So...if it wasn't you..."

"Maybe the phone wasn't destroyed," Finch said finally. "I just tossed it under the car and hoped it would get run over, but if someone else found it-"

"But how would anyone know where you'd been taken?" A damn good question, and one that Finch had no answer to.

"Take me to the library," Finch said. "I can hack into the phone company-"

"No," Reese said, his voice quiet. "You're not going back there until I have a chance to make sure it hasn't been compromised. Where were you grabbed?"

"On the street," Finch said, a sinking feeling in his gut, "in front of the library." He couldn't bear the thought of the CIA pawing through his books and papers, their inept computer technicians tearing apart his system. They were like monkeys trying to break open nuts with stones - they'd never crack his security, but he'd have to rebuild from scratch again. And if they lost access to the building...He liked that building. It held quite a few of his books. "Where are you taking me?" Finch asked.

"Someplace safe," Reese said. "We're almost there."

Finch closed his eyes in relief. He was cold and wet and hurt like he'd been thrown down a flight of stairs. Each breath still made him want to cough, but he could fight the urge, just concentrating on the air hissing between his chattering teeth. It was several more minutes before Reese pulled off the street and down into an underground parking structure. The car stopped and Finch struggled to sit up, ignoring the vehement protestations of his neck and hip, but the effort and pain left him gasping, which made him cough again, a deep, hacking rattle that brought tears to his eyes.

"Easy there, Finch," Reese said, climbing out of the driver's seat and hurrying around to the rear passenger's side door. Strong hands leaned Finch out the door, holding him up as he gagged and choked, spitting thick, stringy globs of mucus onto the floor of the parking structure. When he was finally able to quit, he let Reese ease him back upright in the seat. "You okay?"

"No..." Finch whispered after a moment. "Cold..." Not to mention that it felt like he had a chest full of razor blades.

"I know," Reese said, pulling something out of his back pocket. "Let me get those cuffs off you and we'll go inside and get you warmed up." Finch leaned forward, resting his forehead against the back of the passenger's seat, Reese working quickly to release him. Finch almost gasped as Reese's fingers brushed against his skin, the other man's hands startlingly hot.

"Can you walk?" Reese asked as he crouched beside the door, his hands pulling at the tape that still bound Finch's ankles.

"I hope so," Finch replied, less than thrilled at the idea of being carried again. He sat for a moment, rubbing his sore wrists before trying to wipe the thick, sticky mucus off his face. In an effort to preserve what was left of his dignity, he ignored the hand that was offered to him, grabbing the door instead to haul himself out of the car, but as soon as he tried to put weight on his damaged leg, he realized that dignity was a luxury he could ill afford. The pain was nauseating.

It must have shown on his face, because Reese's help was suddenly no longer optional. He took Finch by the arm and stepped up close to his side. "Hang on to me," he said, his voice low. Finch hesitated, then grabbed a handful of Reese's coat, the heavy material wet from when Reese had carried him, sopping wet, out to the car. Reese wrapped an arm around him, helping to support his weight, and together they slowly made their way across the parking garage.

"Where are we?" Finch asked, peering at blurry lettering on the wall as they waited for the elevator.

"My hotel."

"Are you sure it's safe?"

"No, but it was close and it'll have to do for a few hours until I can make other arrangements."

"We could go to one of my safe houses."

"No, we have to assume that Snow knows about all your aliases. He could have men on any or all of them." The elevator arrived, the door trundling open, and they limped into the car. "If we run into anyone, don't say anything, just look really hung-over."

"_That's_ our cover-story? I'm drunk?"

"What's wrong with that? You want something more creative? Fine. You were at a bachelor party for an old college friend who is getting remarried next weekend, you had too much to drink, and slipped and fell into the pool while trying to do the Macarena. Is that better?"

"Infinitely," Finch said dryly, rolling his eyes. The elevator chimed and Finch tensed as the door rolled open.

"This is us," Reese said, urging him out into the hall.

"What is that?" Finch asked, squinting as he tried to make out the shape of a large, pale _something_ standing at the far end of the corridor.

"A housekeeping cart," Reese said. "Do you have a spare pair of glasses somewhere?"

"At the library."

"I told you, you're not going back to the library for a while. I'll need a couple of days to check it out and make sure it's not being watched."

"Fine," Finch said, unsure if his annoyance at how calm Reese was being was irrational or not. They needed to be calm, to think things through, to not make any more mistakes, but for some reason, some part of him wished Reese had gotten angry, upset, scared - something. He remembered that horrible night when Reese had gotten shot, the fear and worry and guilt roiling in the pit of his stomach as he ran one red light after another. He wanted to know that Reese had felt the same about him, but he supposed that would be asking too much.

"There's the maid," Reese muttered. "Remember, let me handle this." As they made their way closer, Finch could finally make out the figure standing beside the cart, probably staring at them. He imagined he must look a sight. "Bachelor party," Reese said with a chuckle. "He fell in the pool."

"Sorry 'bout the mess," Finch added, his voice raspy and his words slurred.

"That's okay, sir," she replied and he could hear the amusement in her voice, even if he couldn't see her face. They continued down the hall, to Reese's room, and Finch leaned against the wall while Reese pulled his key card out of his pocket and opened the door. Reese helped him inside and closed the door behind them.

"I thought I said I'd handle it," Reese said.

"She wasn't buying it."

"You couldn't even see her."

"It worked, didn't it?"

"Get in the bathroom," Reese said, and it was hard to tell, but he might have been smiling. Finch allowed Reese to help him into the small room, his wet shoes squeaking on the tile floor, and he unexpectedly found himself out of breath, his heart pounding.

"Are you all right?"

"Fine," Finch said, his shoulders tensing as their voices echoed in the enclosed space.

"Harold, you're shaking."

"I'm cold." He pulled away from Reese, leaning on the counter as he toed off his wet shoes. Reese was right, though - he wasn't shivering, he was quaking. What the hell was wrong with him? He tried to ignore it, his breathing growing ragged as he struggled to get out of his wet suit jacket.

"Let me help," Reese said, taking hold of the jacket and gently peeling it off. He set it on the counter and stepped around in front of Finch, his hot hands brushing the chilled skin at Finch's throat as he loosened the tie. "I thought you said it was burgundy."

"I was going to change it."

Reese made a noncommittal sound in his throat. He dropped the tie on the counter and began working on the buttons of Finch's waistcoat. Finch stared down at the large hands, the long fingers, so skilled and dexterous, just close enough that they were almost in focus. Reese finished with the buttons and stepped back, growing blurry and indistinct once more.

"Finish getting undressed," Reese said, turning away and opening the door of the shower stall. "I've got some clothes you can put on once you're warm and clean and dry, and then I'll need to debrief you on the kidnapping." He turned on the water, the shower sputtering to life, and Finch drew a rattling breath, his chest constricting. He couldn't breathe.

"Finch? Harold?"

Finch couldn't respond, he couldn't move, his body shaking as he fought to breathe. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, but it couldn't drown out the hissing, the pattering of the water streaming from the shower. Finch could feel it running over his skin, cold as death, choking him, drowning him-

The sound cut out and Finch gasped, starting himself coughing again. He turned and leaned over the sink, eyes squeezed shut as he fought to get control of himself. A hand on his shoulder made him tense.

"I'm sorry, Harold, I wasn't thinking."

"I'm fine," Finch said, wincing as he tried to shrug off Reese's touch. "I just need to catch my breath."

Reese pulled his hand back. "Fine, hmm?" He reached down past Finch and turned on the sink faucet, a trickle of water splashing into the basin. Reese stuck his fingers in the stream, then flicked cold droplets into Finch's face.

Finch reeled back, his heart racing. He tried to take a step on his bad leg and it nearly buckled beneath him. If not for Reese's strong arms wrapping around him, he would have hit the tiled floor.

"Do you really think that was a normal reaction for someone who is 'fine', Harold?" Reese asked. "You were tortured. There's nothing wrong with not being 'fine'."

"That was hardly torture, Mr. Reese," Finch said stiffly. "I got wet. I'm a little shaken up, but I'll be-"

"Fine?" Reese finished. "If you're so fine, then get into the shower." He took a step forward, forcing Finch back, toward the open door of the shower stall.

Finch swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry, his pulse racing. "I- I'm still dressed!" he protested. "Get off me."

"Your clothes are already wet," Reese said, taking another step. Finch backed into the edge of the stall, his heel connecting with the lip, and he grabbed at Reese's coat, clutching at him.

"John, stop it!"

Reese stopped, Finch's ragged breathing loud in the silence. "Last night, you said you trusted me not to hurt you," Reese said softly. "Trust me now."

"I...I do, I just...I can't breathe..." Why? Why was this so hard, why was he so scared? He was a grown man, an educated and rational human being. He hadn't been beaten or raped or shot or blown up, they'd put him a bathtub and poured water on him. He was stronger than this, damn it! Reese had been tortured. His file said he'd been tortured with electricity for sixteen hours. _Sixteen hours_. And he wasn't a shaking, gasping, worthless mess. He was fine.

"I'm right here," Reese said, the low, rumbling voice seeming to break through the panic. Finch looked up at him, his face almost close enough to make out the subtle details that made Reese one of the most handsome men Finch had ever seen. "Just step up," Reese said, shifting his grip to better support Finch's weight.

Finch closed his eyes, swallowed hard, and stepped backward into the shower stall. He tensed as Reese took his hand and placed it on the cold, metal safety bar attached to one wall, bracing himself for the onslaught of water. Nothing happened. After a moment, he opened his eyes, staring out into the bathroom as Reese removed his shoes and socks, his coat already hanging from the towel rack.

"What are you doing?" Finch asked as Reese unbuckled his belt.

"Taking off my clothes," Reese replied as his trousers hit the floor. He unbuttoned his cuffs, then drew his shirt off over his head and dropped it on the counter. Wearing just his dark boxer-briefs, he approached the shower, stepped inside, and pulled the door shut. His breath coming in short gasps, Finch pressed himself back into the corner, not sure what the hell was going on.

"What are you doing?" he asked again, his voice just a raspy whisper.

"Trying to help you," Reese said, and he reached over and turned on the water.

Finch cringed at the sound, every muscle in his body tensing, but when the water hit him, pattering against his legs, the hot water soaking into his trousers, he couldn't stop himself from lunging at the door. He couldn't take it. He couldn't _breathe_.

A strong arm caught him across the chest and pulled him back, holding him tight against Reese's bare chest, Reese's body shielding him from most of the spray. Finch shuddered and gasped, making himself cough again. His lungs burned, his body ached, and his heart wouldn't quit hammering at the base of his throat. He sobbed, his whole body shaking.

"You must find this...quite pathetic...and revolting..."

"No, Harold, I find this very human and understandable," Reese said. "You experienced something horrendous-"

"It was just water." How could he be so scared of a little water?

"No, it was drowning slowly and it was designed to break people, to overwhelm them with pain and fear and helplessness."

"Agent Snow said you helped perfect the technique."

Reese was silent for a long moment. "He's right, I did." He paused, as though waiting for Finch to say something, but Finch was hardly in a position to cast stones over morally gray choices when he had single-handedly violated the privacy of every human being on the planet. "If I let go now, do you think you can stand here for a minute?" Reese asked finally.

"I- I think so," Finch said, only then realizing that for the second time in as many days, he had been wrapped in the arms of a nearly naked John Reese, and once again he was in no condition to appreciate it. He leaned on the safety bar, fighting the panic that rose anew in his chest as Reese moved back, letting the water rain down on his legs once more. It was stupid, he knew it was stupid, but he couldn't make the feeling stop; he had no control over his weak, pathetic body.

He watched Reese open the stall door, expecting him to leave, but Reese just leaned out, grabbed something, and ducked back in. Finch squinted, straining to identify the object in Reese's hand, a small, white square, it appeared pliable, perhaps cloth- Reese shook out the washcloth and held it under the shower spray. Finch flinched back as Reese raised the cloth toward him.

"Easy, Finch," Reese murmured, his soft voice making Finch bristle. He was not a child, he was not helpless, he did not need to be coddled or talked down to. He grabbed the cloth out of Reese's hand.

"I can do that myself," he said shortly, the skin around his mouth stinging as he scrubbed the rough terrycloth over the abrasions left by the tape.

"I know you _can_," Reese said. "I'm just trying to help."

"Well, thank you, but I don't need help. I'm fine."

Reese let out a breath that sounded thoroughly exasperated. "Damn it, Harold, you are _not_ fine. I was trained to withstand the physical and psychological stress of torture, and even I wasn't 'fine' an hour later. I had flashbacks and panic attacks and screaming nightmares for months afterward. I still wake up sometimes in a cold sweat, dreaming that I'm back in that cave, waiting for those men to return and hurt me some more."

If Reese thought this confession was going to make Finch feel better, he was mistaken. Reese had been trained, and _still_ experienced PTSD, so what chance did Finch have? "I didn't know that," Finch said, wondering how hard it would be to get a prescription for Valium no questions asked.

"I'd be shocked if you did," Reese said, reaching up and taking the washcloth from him. "It didn't go into my file because I never told anyone, I just kept walking around, telling everyone, including myself, that I was fine. But I wasn't. And it wasn't until I almost ate a bullet that I finally got some help. I'm not letting you go through all of that, especially when this never would have happened if it wasn't for me."

"That's not fair," Finch said, even though it was technically true. "I knew the potential danger when I hired you and decided it was an acceptable risk, and I still feel the same way. What happened to me was a small price to pay for all the good we've done."

"You should have just told him."

"I couldn't," Finch said, wincing as he tried to shake his head.

"Mark would have killed you," Reese said, his voice low as he rinsed the cloth in the shower spray. "When he realized you did not have the information he wanted, he wouldn't have hesitated to put a bullet in your head, and that's a price I'm _not_ willing to pay, not for anything. You're too important."

"You're not exactly so easy to replace yourself," Finch replied, slightly unnerved by the intensity in Reese's voice. He flinched again as Reese brought the washcloth back up to his face, but he forced himself to remain still, allowing Reese to rub here and there, on his forehead near his hairline, along the left side of his jaw, down onto the side of his neck, Reese's other hand rising up to pop the buttons at his throat. Finch swallowed hard.

"What did he want to know?" Reese asked and Finch blinked, trying to remember what they'd been talking about.

"Oh. He wanted to know where you were." Reese was close enough, Finch could just make out the frown that creased his brow.

"But you said- You said you couldn't tell him."

"Correct," Finch said, moistening his dry lips. "I couldn't. Not _couldn't_ as in incapable, but _couldn't_ as in impermissible. I couldn't betray you."

"He would have killed you," Reese said again.

"I know, but I just _couldn't_-" Finch found his words suddenly blocked by Reese's lips against his own. The kiss was soft and fleeting, Reese drawing back almost before Finch realized what was happening.

"Sorry; I shouldn't have done that," Reese said. "I meant to say thank you."

Finch didn't think about what he was doing, the risks and consequences, he just reached up, his hand finding the back of Reese's neck, and pulled him down, capturing Reese's lips in a deep and possessive kiss, like he had wanted to do dozens of times. He was surprised when Reese responded, lips parting, those big hands grabbing his hips, sliding up his sides, touching him through his wet shirt.

When he drew back, he was out of breath, his lungs raw and burning, but he ignored it. "I suppose I shouldn't have done that either," he said, his hand lingering at Reese's neck. "Thank you just didn't seem...enough...for what you did."

"I was just returning the favor." Reese regarded him for a long moment, then slowly leaned close again, giving Finch time to stop him, but at that moment, there was nothing on Earth that Finch wanted more than to taste Reese's lips again. They kissed, Finch letting go of the safety bar, trusting Reese's strong arms to hold him up, his hands wandering across the broad expanse of Reese's shoulders, touching, exploring, tracing the scars that interrupted that hot, wet skin.

He was dizzy, delirious, his heart racing, his skin tingling as Reese pulled at his shirt, untucking it from his trousers, those big hands working beneath the cloth to press against bare skin. Finch groaned into Reese's mouth, his eyes closed, leaning against Reese as the stronger man pulled him close. Finch shuffled sideways, letting Reese bear his weight to protect his damaged leg, pivoting when Reese turned him, taking a small, limping step back when Reese crowded him-

Finch gasped, his whole body stiffening as he stepped back into the shower spray, the hot water pounding against the back of his neck. He tried to push past Reese, to get away, but the younger man held him still, muscular arms pinning him against Reese's chest.

"Just breathe, Harold," Reese murmured, his lips brushing Finch's cheek. "You're all right; you're safe with me."

Finch _knew_ that Reese was right, that he was trying to help, but that didn't stop his heart from pounding in his throat. He clenched his hands into fists, his whole body shaking. He felt so _stupid_, so _helpless_. Reese kissed him, a soft brush of lips, but Finch could only stand there, unable to respond. Reese kissed him again...and again, his hands moving slowly beneath Finch's shirt, callused fingers so gentle and tender.

Why? Why put up with such a sickening display of weakness? What did Reese want from him? Did he get off on this? Did Finch's fear excite him? Did it make him feel powerful? Was this revenge for the camera? Was it guilt? Did he feel responsible for Finch's kidnapping? _Was_ he responsible? Had he set it up in order to be the 'hero', to try to get closer to Finch in order to learn his secrets?

His stomach churned with the possibilities and he closed his eyes, fighting down the urge to be sick. He felt Reese's lips against his own and flinched back. "Why are you doing this?" he demanded.

Reese seemed taken aback. "I...I care about you."

"Why?"

"Because you're important to me," Reese said. He hesitated. "I don't let myself care about much, but what I do care about, I protect. I didn't do that today. I failed and you suffered for it, and now I want to make it right. I need you to be all right."

So that was the answer - guilt. Finch knew the weight of that burden well, the dull ache of all the failed numbers and the sharp sting of Nathan's death. It was guilt that drove him most days, when the ache in his neck and his hip threatened to overwhelm him, when the painkillers in his desk drawer tried to seduce him, when hunger and fatigue dared to interrupt his work, when he was tempted just for one day, one afternoon, to not check the Machine. Yes, he and guilt were old friends.

With that understanding came a kind of peace, a resignation. Finch knew the therapeutic value of punishing oneself - he stared at his List every day - and if this was Reese's penance, Finch could hardly deny the man the right to atone for his perceived sins. If this was what Reese felt he had to do...but why the touching and the kissing, what purpose was there to seducing him? Was that even his goal? Such actions were also used to convey affection, to give pleasure, to provide comfort, but if this was just a guilt trip, if Reese was only trying to help him...

Finch suddenly realized that his heart rate had almost returned to normal, his breathing easy and even, although the water continued to patter against his back. He tried not to think about it, instead returning to his analysis of Reese's actions, welcoming the distraction. And therein lay the answer. Reese was trying to distract him, to expose him to the source of his panic while providing sufficient alternate stimulation to derail his fear response. It made sense, it was logical, and it seemed to be working.

He lifted his head, trying not to wince as his fused vertebrae gave a particularly painful twinge, and looked up into Reese's face. "I understand," he said, "and I appreciate what you're doing, just promise me you won't do anything you'll regret later." It stung, knowing that the kisses weren't real, that Reese was working him over like he would any asset, but he understood why and he could approach the situation with his eyes open. He could keep his emotions out of it. He was good at that.

"Funny thing about regrets," Reese said with what sounded suspiciously like a smirk, "you rarely see them coming. But I'll do my best." His lips descended again, mouth soft and inviting, and Finch let his eyes close as he kissed back. He clutched at Reese's shoulders, fighting back a groan as Reese's hands worked farther up under his shirt. He could feel Reese leaning into him, slowly pushing him off-balance, pushing him farther into the water, and he knew what was about to happen, but he resolutely focused his attention on the taste of bitter coffee in Reese's mouth, the smell of his aftershave - which, Finch realized, was the mystery scent on the pillow that morning - the strength in his body as his arms tightened around Finch, nearly lifting him off his feet.

Finch gasped, a strangled cry escaping him as the hot water cascaded down upon his head, running in rivulets down his forehead, dripping off his eyebrows, hitting his cheeks, rolling down his nose, flowing over his lips. He held his breath, trying not to choke on his heartbeat as it pounded in his throat.

"Breathe," Reese whispered, his lips beside Finch's ear. "Breathe, Harold. It's all right. I've got you."

Finch shook his head, just a tiny motion, restricted as it was by the pins in his neck. He couldn't. He could still feel the water in his lungs, the thickness, the burning; the ache in his chest, the fear, the panic - he couldn't go through that again. He tried to push past Reese, the pain flaring in his leg as he was met with resistance. Reese didn't move, he just held him tighter.

_He was out of air._ Finch dug his fingers into Reese's back, his whole body shaking as he gasped, drawing water into his mouth. He choked and spat, fighting against the terror that clawed at the inside of his chest.

"Easy; breathe slow," Reese said, taking one hand, then the other out from under Finch's shirt. Finch could do nothing more than stand there, hands gripping Reese's shoulders, his head bowed as far forward as it would go, water running down his face, streaming from his nose and chin. A large, warm hand cupped his cheek, thumb brushing against his open mouth, tracing his lips as he panted. "That's right, Harold, just breathe. Relax. You're doing fine."

Finch would have begged to differ if he wasn't struggling so hard just to keep his breathing even. But he was breathing. _He was breathing._

"That's it...that's it..." Reese whispered, touching his face. "You're okay. You're going to be fine." And for the first time, Finch actually believed him. Slowly, the tightness in his shoulders eased, the throbbing ache in his hip fading as his damaged muscles relaxed. Hesitantly, he let his leg take his weight, his muscles trembling slightly, but with only a little more pain than usual. It was bearable. He knew he ought to let go of Reese, now that he could stand on his own, but he couldn't force himself to pull away. He'd not been held like that in years.

It was Reese who made the next move, reaching past him to turn off the water. The resulting silence was sudden and echoing, broken only by the sound of their breathing and the dripping showerhead. Finch stood there, letting the water run down his face, feeling awkward in his trousers and shirt, soaked to the skin and clinging to Reese. Slowly, he drew his hands back and wiped his face, blinking quickly to clear the water from his eyes.

"Thank you," Finch said, his voice still rough. He couldn't bring himself to look up at Reese, though. He wasn't sure what he'd see. Pity? Amusement? Disgust? Indifference? Instead, he busied himself with trying to unbutton his saturated shirt, the buttons slippery and wet material uncooperative, giving Reese time to take his leave. His hands faltered as Reese reached up, unbuttoning each of his cuffs before starting to work his way up from the bottom of the shirt. When the last little button had been freed, Finch half expected Reese to leave, but as he had learned from experience, Reese rarely did as expected.

Big, strong hands worked his shirt off, tugging each sleeve down its respective arm, the wet cloth clinging to the undershirt beneath. Finch tried to tell himself that Reese was just being helpful to assuage his guilt, but that didn't change the fact that Reese was _undressing him_, and he was chagrined by his body's reaction to the thought. Reese pulled the shirt free and began to wring the water out of it, then shook it out and hung it over the safety bar. He stepped close again, grabbing the hem of Finch's undershirt and peeling it upward. Finch sucked in his gut as he raised his arms, allowing Reese to have the shirt, which was also wrung out and hung on the bar.

His gaze still averted, he could feel Reese looking at him; his pale skin, his little love handles, the surgical scars over his clavicle and down his left side, the graying hair on his chest...He was old and soft, just a man past his prime, and a fool if he even considered the notion that Reese might actually be attracted to him.

Reese didn't say anything, he just reached out and began tugging at Finch's belt, the wet leather stiff. Finch drew a sharp breath as the proximity of Reese's hands made him harden even more, and he pulled away.

"Something wrong?"

"I can do it myself, thank you."

"All right," Reese said, taking a step back. "Hand them over, then."

"I beg your pardon? I think I've exposed quite enough of myself to you for one day." Why was Reese still doing this? The water was off and Finch didn't need any more distractions. He was fine.

"Oh, Harold..." Reese said, his tone teasing, but Finch really wasn't in the mood. "There's no reason to be shy. It's nothing I haven't seen before."

"I'm quite aware of your exploits, Mr. Reese," Finch said, his tone dry, "but I would still appreciate it if you give me some privacy."

"Did I do something?" Reese asked, suddenly serious. "I thought...the way things were going...I mean, you were kissing me back and I thought..."

"You thought what? That I'd be easy?"

"No, that you wanted me, too."

"Stop trying to play me, John!" Finch burst out, unable to contain his anger. "You know damn well how I feel about you."

"Yeah? How would I? You've never told me anything."

"The same way you've found out everything else about me. Because you're _you_. You've known from the beginning, that's why you tease and flirt and toy with me; that's why you came on to me to distract me from my fear, because you knew-"

"And I couldn't possibly have done any of those things just because I wanted to, because I wanted you?"

"Now you're insulting my intelligence if you think-"

"Gah!" Reese's cry of frustration echoed within the enclosed space. "Harold, so help me God, if you say one more stupid thing-"

"You're going to do what? Shoot me?"

Finch realized too late that that was indeed a stupid thing to say, but by that time Reese had already grabbed him and kissed him, one hand cradling the back of his neck, the other arm wrapping around his waist and drawing him close. Finch stiffened as their bare stomachs touched, his hands finding Reese's shoulders as he made one futile attempt to push the taller man away.

Reese's lips and hands faltered, his touch gentle as he raised his head. "Tell me what I have to do, tell me what to say that will convince you that this is not just some game. I'll do anything."

"I know you would," Finch said, looking up at him. "Don't you see, that's the problem. You were trained by the government to get close to people, do anything, say anything you had to, and you were very, very good at it, and I'm just another asset..." Even without his glasses, Finch could see the hurt on Reese's face.

"You are not _just_ an asset, Harold," he said, and he sounded almost sounded angry. "I wouldn't have risked my life to rescue an 'asset', I'd have fired a grenade into the hotel room to make sure you couldn't reveal any information about me. Do you understand me? I'd have _killed_ you if you were _just_ an asset. Assets are disposable once they become a liability, but you...you are irreplaceable. When I saw that text, when I realized you'd been taken and by who, I couldn't breathe, because I knew what Mark would do to you. Damn it, Finch, you mean everything to me."

Finch looked away, his entire body shaking from the inside out. He wanted to believe, wanted it so badly that his chest ached, but he was too smart to fall for such an obvious ploy, too rational, too logical. He didn't know what Reese wanted, but it was clear he wanted something. Information, probably. Finch must have said something, done something in his drunken stupor the night before, and now Reese was like a dog with a bone and he wouldn't quit until he cracked it open to get at the marrow.

Finch took a deep breath. "Mr. Reese, if your friends at the CIA couldn't get anything out of me after they tried to drown me, what makes you think that little monologue is going to work?" He could see Reese out of the corner of his eye, just standing there, his presence palpable, like a gathering storm. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, but cold.

"Fuck you, you paranoid son-of-a-bitch," he said and shoved the door of the shower stall open, hard enough to bounce it off the wall with a jarring rattle. Finch didn't move, his heart pounding as Reese stormed out. A moment later, something dark flew back into the shower, hitting the floor with a wet sound, and Finch glanced out into the room as Reese wrapped a towel around his waist and jerked the bathroom door open, slamming it shut behind him.

Alone in the silence, Finch found himself out of breath and trembling, a tightness in his throat. "It was just an act," he whispered to himself as he quickly stripped off his wet trousers, briefs, and socks, emerging from the shower stark naked. He found the towels on the counter and dried himself, wrapping one around his waist and staring at his blurry reflection in the mirror. "It was just an act," he said again to the pale, blind old geek squinting back at him. How could a man like Reese be attracted to _that_?

Finch looked around for something to put on, but couldn't find so much as a bathrobe. He briefly considered putting his wet things back on, but the thought made his chest tight and his skin cold. Not that he'd ever tell Reese that he felt that way. As far as anyone was concerned, he was fine. He stood around for a while, listing to the thumping and banging going on in the main part of the hotel room, hoping that Reese would just leave, but as the minutes passed, it became increasingly more likely that Reese would realize that Finch was hiding, avoiding him, and Finch couldn't have that. Whatever else happened between them, they needed to maintain their working relationship. That was the only thing that mattered.

Towel wrapped securely about his waist, Finch took a bracing breath and opened the bathroom door to the unmistakable sound of a drawer being slammed. He hesitated, then limped out into the room, his shoulders square, ready to do battle in whatever form it took. He could just make out Reese on the far side of the room, and it looked like Reese glanced at him before turning away and picking something up off the table.

"Here," Reese said, walking toward him. "You can put these on." He shoved a pile of clothes into Finch's arms as he stepped around him, not even slowing down as he walked past.

"John," Finch said, turning to follow him, but Reese pulled open the hotel room door and disappeared out into the corridor, somewhere that Finch was not about to go wearing nothing but a towel. With a sigh, he stepped over the end of the bed and dropped the items in his arms upon the bedspread.

Dressed in Reese's briefs, T-shirt, and a pair of sweatpants that were too long for him, Finch sat on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing in particular, a thousand different trains of thought running through his head, but the majority of them were some variation of _Damn, I really fucked this up._ He shouldn't have lost his temper. He should have been more tactful. He could have been selfish and self-indulgent and allowed Reese his charade while he reveled in the physical pleasure Reese seemed only too willing to give him. If Finch had been accommodating, how far would Reese have taken it?

Reese had already slept with him, albeit in a literal sense. Mostly. He closed his eyes, replaying the image of Reese cuddled up beside him, sharing his pillow, and in the morning, spooning him and nuzzling his neck. Reese hadn't seemed concerned that he might wake Finch, and if Carter hadn't called...

But was he just playing for the camera? Groaning, Finch pushed himself to his feet and hobbled over to the entertainment center, reaching back past the television to grab the tiny camera he had installed. He pulled it free, holding it in his fist for a moment before returning to the bed and dropping it on the night stand. Reese could have feigned ignorance and anger to make Finch feel guilty and penitent, which worked, if that was his plan. And if it wasn't...

Finch sighed, suddenly exhausted, mentally, emotionally, and physically. He was too tired to even pull the covers back. He just lay down on top of the blankets and reached up to take off his glasses, his fingers brushing his naked face before remembering he wasn't wearing them. As his head settled into the pillow, he took a deep breath, the mucus in his lungs rattling and making him want to cough. He gripped the edge of the pillow in his fist and waited for the discomfort to pass.


	10. Chapter 10

Reese had never felt more frustrated in his life. He sped down the crowded New York City streets in his newly-stolen car, weaving in and out of traffic, running lights, cutting people off, ignoring the cacophony of blaring horns that he left in his wake. He almost dared a traffic cop to try to pull him over, but none did, and he arrived at his destination in one piece and in no better of a mood.

He knew Finch was private, secretive, paranoid, but he would have thought, after all they had been through, that he'd earned just a little of the recluse's trust, just enough for Finch to take a chance on him. Finch had taken a chance when he'd offered him a job, when he'd told him about the Machine, when he'd risked his own life to rescue Reese after he'd been shot. Why was this so much harder? Because it was personal? Finch's life meant nothing to him, but his heart...?

Reese supposed he could understand that. He'd dodged bullets a hundred times more often than he'd ever confessed his feelings for another person. Didn't Finch have _that_ fact written in some file somewhere? Did he realize what it had taken for Reese to admit that he cared? No, of course not. Finch thought it was all a game or a ploy to earn his trust. Damn it, why couldn't he see that he was more than just an asset?

Reese wasn't sure when he had stopped being one, but he knew the exact moment when he realized it, that night in the parking garage, bleeding out in the stairwell, when he'd heard Finch's voice like a lifeline on the other end of the earpiece, and he felt fear for the first time that night, not because he was dying, but because Finch was putting himself in danger to rescue him. It had been so long since he'd had anyone he could count on, he'd forgotten what it felt like.

And now...Finch would probably want to sweep it all under the rug, to forget it ever happened. That sounded worse than hell. How could everything be business as usual when he had _finally_ realized what he wanted, the one thing in his life that made him feel alive and whole again? If he'd even thought that Finch might not share his feelings, he'd have let it go, he'd have done what he was best at - lie through his teeth until he started to believe it - but Finch had kissed him back without reservation. Reese didn't know if Finch was gay or straight, a virgin or a manwhore, but it didn't matter. Not since Jessica had it felt it _that _good to just hold someone.

Reese put the car into park and shut off the engine, climbing out into the late afternoon sun. He was a few blocks from the library, the last place he ought to be, but Finch needed his glasses and laptop. He was probably driving himself crazy being unable to do anything.

Knowing Mark as well as he did had its advantages, even if it meant that Mark knew far more about him than he'd have liked. Reese had surprised him, though. Mark was not expecting Reese to launch a rescue. That worked in Reese's favor at that moment, but now Mark knew that Finch was much more than just an asset. That put him in even graver danger.

Standing beneath the awning of a bodega, Reese let his gaze sweep the nearby rooftops. At this angle, it was nearly impossible to see - which was why he spent so much time up there - but he knew Mark would have at least one man covering the high ground, a sniper with orders to shoot to kill. He'd have the street covered, too. In fact, Reese could see one operative loitering on a front stoop across from the library, and where there was one, there would be others.

His training said to back off, to avoid the hot zone, but Reese had never been one to shy away from a fight, even when he was outnumbered. And Mark knew that. He'd be around somewhere, in a surveillance van probably, or inside the library, assuming they even realized its significance. Since he didn't see a large, unmarked truck parked in front of the abandoned building, or a dozen tier one agents carrying out everything that wasn't nailed down, it wasn't unreasonable to think that Mark only knew that Finch had been seen frequently in the area, but not his actual destination. At least the man's paranoia was good for something.

Reese didn't feel like playing the 'he knows that I know that he knows...' game anymore. Instead, he picked out a nearby apartment building, turned up his collar against the wind, and headed over, resisting the urge to hunch his shoulders as the phantom itch of a sniper's scope weighed on the back of his neck. He made it to the front doors with his head still on his shoulders and quickly picked the lock. Once inside, he headed upstairs, deciding the eighth floor would be high enough. He picked an apartment with windows facing the library, near the middle of the building, and knocked on the door.

"Who is it?" asked a female voice.

"NYPD, ma'am," Reese answered, pulling Stills' badge out of his inside coat pocket and holding it up. "May I have a word with you?"

The security chain rattled and the door opened, a young brunette with pale green eyes peering out at him. "Is there a problem?" she asked.

"I need to look out of your windows for a few minutes," Reese said.

"Excuse me?"

"A possible suspect in a string of recent identity thefts may be hiding in one of the nearby buildings. I just need to take a look out the window."

"Oh...okay..." she said, stepping back to allow him in. He put the badge away and made his way over to the living room windows, peering out through the sheer curtains, his sharp eyes scouring all the rooftops in sight. He was a little disappointed to pick out the first sniper so easily, hunkered down on the roof of the building across the street. The second took a bit more effort. From his vantage point, Reese could pick out three agents on the street, but saw no sign of the surveillance van or Mark.

"Would you like something to drink? Coffee? Water?"

Reese turned to the woman with a smile. "Thank you, but no. I've seen what I needed to see. Thanks for your cooperation." As he headed back downstairs, Reese considered his options. He'd only brought the one gun and one extra magazine, so he'd be in a disadvantage in a shootout. Logic said to sneak into the library and avoid confrontation. He wanted a third option.


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note:** So, I've decided where to take this story (mostly) and it's turned out very plotty and not nearly as smutty as I thought it would be. There will be smut, don't worry, just not for a while. Not sure if that's good or bad, lol. It looks like it's going to be quite a bit longer, too.

I've also written several more shorts for _Water Spots_, so I'm going to start posting them again every couple of days. Thanks to SeveRemus for two of the ideas (I'm still working on the third) and if anyone else has any ideas or scenarios feel free to message me (remember, the theme is _wet_, specifically drops of liquid on Finch's glasses).

Thanks for reading and reviewing! ^_^

* * *

><p>The disadvantage to being a sniper on a rooftop is that no one has your back. Of course, in the CIA, no one has your back anyway, so it was relatively simple for Reese to sneak up behind the first of the snipers, put his gun to the man's head, and yank out his earpiece, disabling his ability to call for help.<p>

"I'm only going to ask this once," Reese said, his voice low. "Where is Agent Snow?"

"I- I don't know," the sniper said. Jesus, he sounded sixteen.

"Wrong answer," Reese said, hitting him at the base of his skull with the butt of his gun, the impact slamming him forward into the brick ledge where the sniper rifle rested. Blood gushed from his broken nose as he dropped to the ground. Reese used his foot to roll the young man onto his face so he wouldn't drown in his own blood, then pulled the rifle down and began dismantling it, tucking the firing pin into his coat pocket to render it useless. He quickly searched the sniper, turning up two more handguns, which he took with him.

The second guy was a little more difficult. He was smart, setting himself up with his back against a wall, giving Reese no choice but to shoot him, putting one in his shooting arm and one in his knee. The shots echoed from the nearby facades, but would largely go ignored by the majority of the populace. Only the agents on the street below might pay any attention, if they even heard it over the noise of the traffic.

Reese walked up to the writhing man, placing his foot on the injured knee and pressing down, the hoarse scream startling a flock of pigeons off the roof of the library.

"Where is Agent Snow?" Reese asked, looking the man in the face and letting him see the absolute lack of fucking around in his eyes.

"Bread truck- Two blocks north- Please!" Reese slammed his gun into the man's jaw, probably breaking it and definitely knocking him out. He stripped him of his weapons, then turned to the sniper rifle, running his hands over the cold metal. Pointing it north, he peered through the scope, locating the bread truck. Standing a few feet away was another operative, but not Mark.

Taking a deep breath, Reese swiveled the rifle, sweeping along the crowded city street, picking out his targets and planning his shots carefully. Finch would never forgive him if he injured an innocent bystander. He'd probably be pretty pissed if he knew what Reese was about to do, but some things could not be tolerated, and the kidnapping and torture of Reese's friend was at the top of the list.

Remembering the sight of Finch writhing in the bottom of that bathtub, soaked to the skin, struggling to breathe, terrified and in pain, filled Reese with a cold, seething anger, the kind that made the world grow quiet, focused down to a single point at the other end of a sniper scope. It was different than the hot, blind rage that had filled him in that hotel, where he'd shot those agents dead without so much as a hesitation. He regretted that. He took aim at the first operative, the one standing across the street from the library, his finger slowly squeezing the trigger.

The shot made almost no sound, the recoil far less than Reese was expecting, and the man went down like a ton of bricks, clutching at his left knee. Trust the CIA not to settle for less than the best. Reese moved on to the next target, taking him down as he turned to see why his fellow agent was screaming. Reese loaded another round into the chamber, dropping the third with a shot to his right shoulder as he ran toward the first two. He scanned the streets, looking for any that he had missed, but all he could see were panicked civilians running and ducking for cover.

Reese shifted his focus to the bread truck, to the agent standing on the sidewalk, speaking into the receiver tucked inside his sleeve, a look just shy of panic in his eyes. Reese lowered the barrel of the rifle and put a bullet in his knee. Before he'd even hit the pavement, Reese was taking aim at the right rear tire of the truck. He fired, the vehicle listing to the right, but it evened out as he disabled the left rear, too. He stayed for the length of a single breath, hoping Mark would have the balls to show his face, but when he didn't appear, Reese dropped the rifle and made for the stairs. He wasn't there for target practice, nor for revenge.

Police sirens filled the air, the street clogged with frantic people and gawking motorists, the sidewalks crowded with onlookers from the nearby buildings. No one noticed a guy in a suit slipping into a narrow alleyway.

Gun drawn, Reese entered the library, making his way up the stairs and through the maze of corridors, all his senses on high alert. Only when he reached the main hub and found it undisturbed did he allow himself to lower the gun and relax a little. Mark had no idea about this place.

Moving quickly, Reese found Finch's laptop, power cord, and a spare pair of glasses on his desk. Feeling justified for once, he rifled through the drawers, turning up another cell phone and several thick stacks of cash. He pocketed everything and tucked the laptop under his arm, casting one last look around the room as he headed for the hall, but he stopped as his gaze fell on Finch's array of computer monitors. If Mark did find the library, if the CIA tech-boys managed to crack Finch's encryption, it could have disastrous consequences. For that matter, if they got their hands on any of this stuff - Reese's cache of weapons, the photos from the surveillance of past numbers, Finch's list - it would compromise the entire operation.

Reese hesitated. There was gas for the generator and enough munitions in the other room to level a building...which would be the smart thing to do. That was why an operative never got attached to things - or people - because everything was disposable. His gaze slid over Finch's book collection, reverently protected behind heavy metal gates secured by a padlock and chain. He'd be devastated.

Stepping over to the generator, Reese crouched down and shut it off, the lights flickering once before winking out, the hum of electronics falling silent. Pulling out his pocket knife, he used the blade to loosen the screws and remove the back panel, slicing through every wire he found beneath. No sense making it easy. Next, he went to Finch's computer, opening the tower and yanking out the motherboard and hard-drive. It wasn't a perfect solution, but it would have to do.

Laptop under his arm and gun in hand, Reese exited the building, heading on down the alley, away from the chaos he had caused, but a squad car pulled up in front of the alleyway entrance, two uniformed officers jumping out. Reese pressed himself against the wall of the library, hidden behind a dumpster, and glanced toward the near end. Red and blue lights flashed and danced over everything, but the sidewalks were still packed with people. The cops would be busy with crowd control and trying to take witness statements. No one would notice him. He hoped.

Stepping out of the alley, he chanced a single look up the street, half the NYPD swarming the scene, miles of crime scene tape being strung, and ambulances carrying away the victims. Briefly, he wondered if the snipers had been found yet, then chided himself for getting soft. They were lucky he hadn't put two in the chest and one in the head. A year ago, he would have.

Sidling along behind the onlookers, he mimicked their movements, their expressions, trying to avoid drawing attention. He lingered at the edge of the crowd for a moment, looking for the weakest point in the police barricade, then tucked his gun away and strode straight toward a nervous-looking rookie, his gaze darting from the street to the nearby rooftops, his face pale and his sidearm unsecured.

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to-"

"Save it," Reese said, flashing Stills' badge.

"Oh, sorry, Detective," the kid said, stepping aside to let Reese past.

Reese hesitated, then turned back. "What's your name, officer?"

"Murphy, sir," the rookie said with the wariness of someone who was no stranger to being dressed down by a superior.

"Well, Murphy, you might want to secure that weapon before somebody decides to grab it out of your holster." The kid cursed under his breath and scrambled to obey. A small smile tugged at the corner of Reese's mouth "And relax. Initial trajectory reports indicate that the shots came from up there-" He pointed to the rooftop two blocks away, the opposite direction that Murphy had been looking. "And whoever it was is long gone."

"Thank you, sir," Murphy said, though he didn't seem all that relieved. "I've never seen anything like this before. What kind of crazy son-of-a-bitch shoots up a crowded street?"

"Maybe he had a good reason," Reese said with a one-shoulder shrug. Murphy looked at him like he'd just grown a second head. "That's a joke," Reese explained, giving him a friendly clap on the back. "Lighten up." He headed for his car, parked just a short two and a half blocks away, but it felt like two and half miles. He could feel that itch at the back of his head again and he quietly reached beneath his coat and pulled his weapon. He hadn't survived that long by ignoring his instincts.

He made it one block, then two, the eerie feeling fading as he approached the car, but he still glanced around to make sure he wasn't being followed or watched. No one was paying him any attention, all the flashing lights at the other end of the street so much more interesting.

It was the aberrant behavior that caught his eye first, a man in a dark suit ignoring the police cars and ambulance that went screaming by, walking up the side street toward him. The bald head and sharp eyes only registered after. _Mark._ Reese hesitated, his grip tightening on his pistol. Mark hadn't seen him yet. He could just leave. Or he could put a bullet between those soulless eyes.

Reese took another step toward the car, and like a predator drawn by the movement of its prey, Mark's head snapped around. Their eyes met. Mark reached for his gun, but Reese already had his in his hand. Mark drew his weapon; Reese was already aiming. Mark raised his arm; Reese had his finger on the trigger. Reese fired.

The bullet hit Mark in the shoulder, knocking him back and sending his shot wide. People screamed. Reese ignored them. Face twisted with pain and hatred, Mark straightened up, using both hands to raise his weapon. Reese fired again, the bullet grazing Mark's cheek and tearing through the shell of his ear, blood streaming down his face and neck. They stared at each other for a moment more, then Mark let his arm drop and pressed his other hand to his wounds. Reese turned and walked to his car, climbed inside, and sped away.

Knowing Mark as well as he did had its advantages. He knew Mark wouldn't have hesitated to kill him, but he also knew that the man wasn't ready to die. And he knew that Mark knew that he wouldn't have missed such a clear shot. He wasn't sure why he'd settled for a graze. He wanted to kill Mark for what he'd done. And perhaps therein lay the answer. He killed people because he had to, not because he wanted to, and he wasn't going to let a backstabbing piece of shit like Mark push him into the dark again, not after all Finch had done to draw him back toward the light.


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note:** OMG, Ep. 20 was Awesome! It fucks my continuity all to hell, lol, but oh, well. Maybe I can work something out, but I'll probably just ignore it. And now the next chapter! Prepare yourselves for angst and fluff and revelations many of you have seen coming ^_^ Hopefully it's still entertaining, even if it's not all plot-twisty like the show.

Thanks for reading and reviewing!

* * *

><p>After paying for an upscale hotel room with one of the credit cards Finch had supplied him with, Reese drove across town to a seedy, flea-bag motel and paid cash. Finch was going to hate it, but at least the room had two beds and free wifi. A glance into the bathroom made him frown, but if the bathtub bothered Finch, he could survive without a shower for a couple of days. Reese even killed some time by picking up groceries at a local market - green tea, canned soup, bread, sliced lunchmeat - but eventually he had no choice - he had to go back for Finch.<p>

He circled the hotel several times before driving into the parking structure. He found a space close to the elevator and made his way to his room, laptop tucked under his arm again and his hand resting on the butt of his gun. Perhaps it was his own flavor of paranoia, but experience - along with the CIA - had taught him that the best time to ambush someone was when they felt safest.

Even after he closed the door behind him, he couldn't fully shake the tension, the worry. He needed to get Finch to a secure location, then he'd be able to relax. Maybe. Reese took a step toward the main room, but stopped, suddenly struck by the silence, and the image of Finch hiding in the closet sprang to mind. After what he'd been through, it wouldn't have been unreasonable.

"It's just me, Finch," he said, waiting a moment for the man to extricate or otherwise compose himself, but when he received no response, another, more alarming thought occurred to him. What if Finch left? How angry would he have to be to go wandering the streets in wet shoes and borrowed clothes, without his glasses or cell phone? How angry did he think Reese was? Maybe he thought Reese wasn't going to come back for him.

Reese stepped into the room, expecting the worst, and was relieved to see the older man stretched out on the bed, sound asleep. Of course; he'd be exhausted. Reese regarded him for a moment. They needed to get moving, but he looked so peaceful and relaxed. Reese hated to wake him.

Moving quietly, Reese crossed the room and set the laptop down on the table, emptying his pockets of all of Finch's things before shrugging out of his coat and settling it over the back of a chair. He stood beside the table for a moment, trying to weigh his options and plan his next move accordingly, but all he could think about was Finch, his soft breathing, his warm body. Reese teetered on the edge of indecision. He needed a plan, a strategy to reach the endgame, but he wasn't even sure what the endgame was. The operative in him hated this, hated going into a mission blind, but the part of him that was still human found a strange sort of satisfaction and comfort from it. This was what living was supposed to be, yearning and not knowing and mistakes and fear and loss and triumph.

Finally, he toed off his shoes, moving quickly and surely to the far side of the bed. Fuck the endgame; this was what he wanted _now_. Trying not to disturb Finch, he crawled onto the bed and settled down behind him, just shy of letting their bodies touch. When Finch didn't wake, Reese eased closer, resting his foot against Finch's, laying a hand on his shoulder, fitting his body against Finch's like a matching puzzle piece. Slowly, he slid his hand down Finch's arm, to his side, savoring the warmth and softness beneath the thin T-shirt. Wrapping his arm around Finch, Reese drew a long, deep breath, his nose tucked into the crook of Finch's neck, and closed his eyes as he let out a contented sigh. If Finch knew how good this felt, how right, he wouldn't question Reese's sincerity.

Reese didn't really sleep, he couldn't, not with Mark out there looking for them, but he was able to rest, his muscles relaxing, the day's spent adrenaline leaving his system, his heart rate slowing, his mind wandering. He wasn't sure how long they lay there, but it didn't feel like long enough when Finch drew a sudden, loud breath, his entire body tensing. Reese didn't move, except to open his eyes, the pale scar on the back of Finch's neck too close and out of focus. He could feel Finch's heart begin to pound, beating beneath his hand.

"Mr. Reese?" Finch asked finally, his voice strained.

"Yes, Harold?" Reese murmured back, relying on his training to keep his tone calm and even.

"What- Why-"

"Don't bother," Reese said, careful not to let himself sound angry or bitter. "You won't believe my answers anyway. Let's just take this moment at face value and enjoy it while we can."

"Really. You're enjoying this?"

"Very much so. You're not?"

Finch hesitated. "I'm not sure. Maybe, if I could understand your intentions, I would."

"I told you my intentions," Reese said. "You called me a liar. Let's not go there again."

"So you're going to stick to that story, even though I don't believe you?"

"It's the truth."

"That you're attracted to me?"

"Yes. Why is that so hard to believe?"

Finch tensed. "I think the answer to that is staring you right in the face, Mr. Reese."

"I don't follow," Reese said, frowning at the back of Finch's neck.

"All right, I'll make this simple," Finch said, his voice hard and honed sharp as a knife's edge. Reese raised his head as Finch reached down, pulled the shirt up, and shoved the sweats and briefs off his hip, exposing the thick, gnarled scars that carved ruts and gouges into his flesh. Reese studied the damage, then looked back down at Finch, his face as closed and guarded as Reese had ever seen it. After a moment, Finch jerked his pants back up and started to pull away. "Now, if your curiosity has been satisfied, I suggest-"

Reese slid his arm more securely around Finch's chest and pulled him back close, letting his breath fall against the back of Finch's head. "Do you think that bothers me?" he asked. "Do you think this-" He bowed his head, placing an open-mouthed kiss on the scar on the back of Finch's neck, making the smaller man shiver. "Bothers me? I have scars, too, Finch."

"Yes, but yours were earned in battle," Finch replied, speaking fast, his voice half an octave higher than normal. "You got them saving people, protecting people, serving your country, doing what you thought was right. You weren't a victim, helpless as a lamb at the slaughter."

"Is _that_ what you see?" Reese asked, lightly mouthing the back of Finch's neck in lieu of punctuation. "Because I don't see a victim. I see a survivor. I see strength. But when I look at myself, I _don't_ see a hero, I see mistakes, I see bad decisions, times I was too slow, too weak, too young, too trusting. I see every one of my failures written in my skin."

Finch was trembling, but he made no move to pull away as Reese relaxed his grip, slowly sliding his hand back to Finch's injured hip. When his fingertips met the elastic waistband of the sweatpants, he gently eased them underneath, hesitating just a moment before working his hand into Finch's underwear, warm skin and hard scar tissue pressed against his palm.

"Scars are very personal things," Reese whispered. "Ours mean much more to us than they do to anyone else, and yours..._do not_...make me want you any less." He stressed his words with a soft caress over Finch's injured hip, drawing a strangled gasp from him.

"Mr. Reese..."

Reese closed his eyes, waiting.

"You can't convince me," Finch said, and even though Reese had been expecting it, his words were like a shot in the gut. Reese couldn't breathe, his chest tight, his skin cold. But Finch wasn't finished yet. "There is no argument that you can make that I could not find fault with... So I'm just going to have to trust you."

Reese blinked. "What?"

"I promised you that I would never lie to you, so I do not make this statement lightly, but if you give me your word that this is not just some game or angle you're working, I will believe you."

"It's not," Reese said, his heart suddenly pounding. "Oh, Harold, I swear it isn't."

"I believe you," Finch said quietly.

Reese took a shuddering breath through the tightness in his throat, his eyes sliding shut, staggered by how much those three words meant to him. "Thank you," he whispered, withdrawing his hand from its place on Finch's hip and wrapping it around his chest once more, just holding him close. Slowly, Finch relaxed against him, taking a deep breath and letting it out in a long sigh.

"Nice as this is - and it _is_ - don't we have more important things to do?"

"I suppose," Reese said, but he didn't move, reluctant to let Finch out of his arms. He hesitated. "Do you feel like talking about the kidnapping?" He cursed himself as Finch tensed again.

"For what purpose?" Finch asked. "Information, curiosity, or therapy?"

"All of the above," Reese admitted. "But mostly information. I know Mark, and what he did, what he said, could tell me a lot about what he knows and what he's planning to do."

"All right," Finch said, taking a bracing breath, his tone very controlled and factual when he began recounting the events. "I had just hung up talking to you. I was about a block and a half from the library, and I noticed a man in a suit standing outside the building..."

Reese listened, occasionally asking a question for further clarification, but Finch was doing a fine job remembering the details, better than a lot of soldiers and agents that he'd helped debrief over the years. Until he got to the torture part, and then his body began to shake, his voice growing hard as he fought to keep a tremor out of it.

"They put tape over my mouth an- and the hood over my head, and they carried me into the bathroom and put me in- in the tub."

Reese wanted to stop him, to not make him relive the experience again, but he knew that talking about it would help. He pressed his body closer to Finch, wrapping his arms more securely around the smaller man, wishing he could just enfold him completely, a shield against all the pain and horror and ugliness of the world.

"The water was so cold," Finch said, his voice falling to barely louder than a whisper. "It made everything hurt and I couldn't catch my breath, and breathing hard just made me inhale more water. It felt like hours, but Snow came back and said it had been ten minutes, and asked if I wanted to see what half an hour felt like. I figured I was dead anyway, so I didn't bother trying to lie to him anymore. I said I'd never tell him where you were. Then he said, 'Do you really want to die for him? He's not worth it' and I said...I said, 'Yes, he is'. And then they- John?"

Reese squeezed his eyes shut, unable to stop the stinging tears that slipped free, his whole body shaking as he drew a noisy, shuddering breath. He swallowed hard past the lump in his throat, trying to get control of himself. "Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt," he said finally. "Please, go on."

"They just turned the water back on and Snow left to get coffee, and a while later you showed up. Are you all right?"

Reese took another shuddering breath. "I appreciate what you said, but...I'm _not_ worth it, not if the price is your life. Of the two of us, I _am_ replaceable."

"That's a matter of opinion," Finch said.

"No, it's a fact. You're the only one with access to your Machine. That makes you irreplaceable, and I want you to promise me, if you ever find yourself in a similar situation, that you will not hesitate to trade my life for your freedom."

"John..."

"Harold, I'm serious. Promise me."

"No. I won't."

"You're being irrational-"

"Of course I'm irrational," Finch said, pulling away and sitting up, twisting his upper body around until he could look down at Reese, a frown darkening his pale eyes. "This is your _life_ we're talking about. You can't make me care about you and then tell me to stab you in the back at my earliest convenience. I won't do it."

"I'm not asking you to stab me in the back." Reese said, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. "This is only if you wind up kidnapped again, which isn't going to happen. I won't let it."

"Then there's no need for me to make promises regarding events that aren't going to happen."

"Harold..."

"Oh, fine," Finch said with a sigh. "If I'm ever kidnapped by the CIA again, I promise to hand you over so they won't kill me. Happy?"

"Yes," Reese said, letting his smile have free rein, "because you admitted you care about me."

Finch rolled his eyes. "Of course I care about you, and I don't care what you say - to me, you _are_ irreplaceable." He paused, a subtle change in his expression making him suddenly look younger, more at ease. Reese lifted his head, meeting Finch halfway as the older man leaned down, resting his hand in the middle of Reese's chest as they kissed. Reese closed his eyes, fighting that tightness in his throat again as _Finch_ kissed _him_, Finch's hand roaming over his chest, Finch's body shifting closer, initiating contact. Reese's hands slid up Finch's back, wanting nothing more than to strip him out of his clothes and hold him tight, but they had already lingered too long.

After a minute, Reese pulled back. "We really should get moving," he said, letting his reluctance be heard. He didn't want Finch to think what Finch was obviously thinking as he regarded Reese - that Reese had changed his mind, or that he had never really wanted Finch in the first place. Then Reese watch Finch mentally shake himself, chasing the suspicion out of his eyes.

"You're right," Finch said. "The world does not stop turning just because we..." He stopped, as though unable to define the change that had occurred in their relationship. Reese wasn't sure he could, either. "What did you do while you were out?"

"Oh..." Reese said. He'd hoped Finch wouldn't ask so he didn't have to lie. "I got us another room - paid cash - and picked up a few things for you."

"Clothes?"

"No. It's a little hard to carry laptop, garment bag, and my gun at the same time."

"I'm not even going to ask where you stole a laptop from," Finch said, only a trace of mild disapproval in his tone, "nor will I point out that without my glasses, a laptop isn't really much use."

"Which is why I didn't bother to steal one, I swung by the library and got yours and your glasses-"

"You got my glasses?" Finch said, rolling over and lunging to his feet. "Where are they?"

"On the table," Reese said, sitting up, his body cold without Finch's warmth. He watched Finch limp across the room and grab his spare glasses, putting them on and gazing around the room with obvious relief. Reese couldn't begin to imagine what it must be like, to be so helpless, so dependent on two small pieces of glass and a few inches of wire.

Finch turned to him and frowned. "I thought you said it was too dangerous to go back to the library."

"I said it was too dangerous for _you_ to go back there," Reese said. "And I was right."

"The CIA was there?" Finch looked stricken.

"Not in the building," Reese assured him, climbing off the bed. "They were spread out over a four block radius. I don't think they connected you to the library."

"Small favors," Finch muttered, pulling out one of the chairs and sinking into it as he opened the laptop and turned it on. While it booted up, he glanced back over at Reese. "How did you get past them?"

Reese busied himself with putting his shoes back on. "I created a distraction," he said. "While I was in the library, I shut off the generator and disabled it, just in case, and I pulled the hard-drive out of your computer. I figured better safe than sorry."

"Good thinking," Finch said, picking up the hard-drive off the table and turning it over in his hands. "Most of the data I have compiled is stored in my personal server network - there's not much on here, but you're right - better safe than sorry." He set it back down and logged onto his laptop. "I need your phone."

"I grabbed a spare one out of your desk," Reese said, motioning to the cell on the table.

"Thank you, but I'd like to see that text you were sent. I need to know who is helping us and how they knew."

Reese pulled his cell out of his pocket and walked it over to the table. "Is this going to take long? We really should get going."

"Two minutes," Finch said, taking the phone and opening Reese's inbox to call up the text. "Blocked number - of course - but you can't hide from me," he muttered, punching buttons on the phone. Suddenly, he frowned. "Wait, that shouldn't be there. What...?"

"That string of alphanumeric gibberish? I saw that," Reese said. "What does it mean?" Finch didn't answer, he just stared at the phone. "Finch?"

"It's...It's a secure wireless transmission code," Finch said finally, a strange look in his eyes as he glanced up at Reese. "I get the same thing when the Machine replies to my texts when I'm checking for numbers from the irrelevant list."

"The Machine is government property now," Reese said. "Can we assume it's a government network that it uses? That would suggest whoever sent me the text is also government. Who did you say you built the Machine for? The NSA?"

"I didn't say," Finch said, "and it doesn't matter, anyway. You're not understanding. This code isn't for a network, it's for a single...entity."

"So you know who it is?" Reese asked.

Finch nodded, a tiny, jerky movement. "It's the Machine," he said. "I told you, I get this _same code _when I access the backdoor of the Machine." He leaned back in his chair, running a hand back through his hair. "This is...incredible. I taught the Machine to gather the data, to make the connections, but I never taught to act on the information. I have to access it to get the numbers, it doesn't send them to me. I mean, it would have recognized that I was in danger - that's what it does - but it shouldn't have texted you, it shouldn't have been _capable_, because I _never programmed it to do that._"

"And no one else could have-" He stopped at the dirty look Finch gave him. "Right, stupid question."

"It's so heavily and thoroughly encrypted, even _I_ couldn't change the programming now. This is something it learned how to do on its own. I mean, what it did isn't that remarkable - it has access to all the surveillance in the city, and all the cell phones, and it recognizes relationships between groups and individuals, so it would know that you would be the one to contact in an emergency-"

"_If_ you had programmed it to do that," Reese said. "So, that makes the Machine what? Sentient? Alive?"

"No," Finch said with a snort of amusement. "I taught it self-preservation, to monitor the people who knew about it, to defend itself against unauthorized access, to erase and alter data that could prove its existence. It's possible that it was protecting itself by preventing me from revealing information about it while under duress. Not that I would have. That doesn't make it alive, just...more complicated than I thought." He sighed and shook his head. "I wish I could see what it was thinking at that moment...Oh, well. You said we needed to go?"

"Probably should," Reese said, nodding. "I'll get my things together. There's an extra garment bag in the closet - we can put your wet clothes in it and drop them off at a dry cleaner's on our way."

"All right," Finch said, his fingers dancing over the laptop keyboard. "Just give me another minute..." Reese shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips as he walked away. Geeks and their toys. He pulled his duffel bag out from under the bed, lifted the mattress, and proceeded to pack all his weapons away. He cleaned out the drawers in the dresser - again, mostly weapons and surveillance equipment - before heading into the bathroom for his toiletries.

"Good Lord, John!" Finch suddenly exclaimed and Reese cringed.

"I didn't have any choice," Reese explained as he emerged from the bathroom, hands full of toothbrush, shampoo, and deodorant.

"You put seven people in the hospital!" Finch scowled at him. "You could have killed someone."

"I know. I could have killed Snow, I had the shot, but..."

Something in Finch's expression changed, a sharp edge to his anger that hadn't been there before. "Why didn't you?"

"Because I wanted to," Reese said, going back to packing. "I wanted to kill him for what he did to you-"

"What he did to me? You almost died because of him."

Reese shrugged, his back still turned to Finch. "I brought that on myself, what I was, what I did. I'm not that man anymore, which is why I didn't kill him."

"Well, then I'm glad you didn't," Finch said, but there was still something in his voice...

"Do you wish I had killed him?"

Finch hesitated. "No. And yes. But mostly no."

"I understand," Reese said. "C'mon, we need to go."


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's Note:** I couldn't stop squeeing and sighing after last night's episode! So good! Going to have to write a 'housewarming' fic now. XD

The next chapter of _Damaged_ will switch back to Finch's POV. I think this will be the last POV change, which means another five or six chapters until the end. Don't know if I can wrap everything up by then, so this is just a guess. And yes, there will be smut, just not yet. ^_^ For now, enjoy the fluff and thanks for the reviews!

* * *

><p>"How...quaint," Finch said, standing in the middle of the hotel room, his laptop tucked under his arm. "Reminds me of that <em>place<em> where I found you..."

"Oh, no, this is much nicer," Reese said, giving him a sideways glance. Finch did not look amused as he limped over to the table and set the computer down, taking off his wet shoes and socks before getting back to work. Or trying to, at least. As Reese double-checked the room for bugs and unpacked his bag, hanging his suits in the closet and dispersing his arsenal between the dresser drawers and beneath one of the mattresses, Finch kept making impatient noises and tapping his fingers on the table. "Something the matter, Finch?"

"This is just a backup unit," he said. "It's not nearly fast enough. My system at the library could run this search in one tenth of the time, and run half a dozen parallel processes while it was at it."

"Doesn't look that impressive to me," Reese said, pulling the hard-drive and motherboard out of his bag and setting them on the table in front of Finch. Finch started to reach for the hardware, then frowned as he glanced up at Reese.

"You don't think that was the main computer that you pulled these out of, do you?" he asked. "That was just a relay unit - little more than a decoy, really. It allows wireless access to the central computer."

"And where is that?"

"In the library."

"So, taking that-" He motioned to the hardware. "Really didn't help."

"I wouldn't say that," Finch said. "It maintains the deception that this was important enough to take. And if you couldn't find the central computer - and I know how much time you've spent snooping around my library - then I'm not worried about those idiots at the CIA finding it."

"So, where is it?" Reese asked, his curiosity like an itch he couldn't scratch.

Finch just gave him a small, smug smile. "If we ever get to go back there, I'll show you. Right now, you need to get back to watching Ms. Wallace."

Reese had almost forgotten. In his defense, it had been a long, unusually stressful day, and it wasn't even five o'clock yet. "I'm on it," he said. He drew his gun, ejected the magazine, and refilled the clip before tucking it away again. "I still need to force pair her phone. Did you find out anything else about her?"

"I never got a chance to see what the search turned up," Finch said, "and this damn thing..." He looked like he wanted to throw the laptop against the wall.

"Patience, Finch," Reese said with a chuckle as he slipped his earpiece into place. He pulled a second one out of his bag and set it on the table. "I know you don't like these things, but I'd feel better if we stayed in contact while I'm gone."

"You're not going to get all clingy now, are you?" Finch asked dryly, a slight frown creasing his brow as he inserted the earpiece, then he glanced up at Reese, a small smile gracing his lips for the duration of a single heartbeat. Reese resisted the urge to lean down and kiss him, instead turning and heading for the door. He hesitated before opening it, glancing back over his shoulder at Finch. "Are you going to be okay here by yourself?"

"I'm fine, Mr. Reese," Finch said, not looking up from his laptop. When Reese continued to stand at the door, Finch finally raised his head. "I'm okay, John. Really."

"All right," Reese said with a faint nod. He held up his phone. "Call me; I don't think I have that number." He stepped outside, into the covered breezeway, and pulled the door shut behind him. The cell rang and he answered, establishing the secure connection and switching his earpiece on. "Are you there, Finch?"

"Yes, Mr. Reese."

Reese smiled to himself as he climbed into the car. "Don't forget to eat something soon," Reese said. "I did some shopping - groceries are on the counter or in the minifridge."

"Tea?"

"Of course."

Finch sighed. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." As he drove across town, he listened to the quiet sounds of Finch making tea, punctuated by muttered curses at the laptop and fits of frenetic typing. Reese reviewed the limited information he'd been given, trying to determine a likely direction for the case to turn, so Finch could refine his search and thus save time and frustration. He wasn't sure if he was just becoming cynical, or if the previous case had something to do with it, but his thoughts turned almost instantly to one person.

"Hey, Finch, where's the ex-husband? You said she was divorced."

"Yes, I did...give me a minute...Ah, here it is. Jeremy Roberts is currently incarcerated in the Arizona State Penitentiary serving a six year sentence for possession with intent and domestic abuse. Looks like she testified against him."

"I'd say that's a good place to start looking for a threat," Reese said. "See if he's had any friends released in the past few weeks."

"Easier said than done," Finch muttered. "Oh. No need. Mr. Roberts was released last week after serving only half his sentence due to overcrowding. There's a warrant out for his arrest for violating the terms of his parole, namely leaving the state."

"Is he in New York?"

"I don't know," Finch said, sounding disgusted. "I can't run facial recognition on this thing and I'm not finding a credit card or cell phone registered to his name or any of his known aliases. I'm sending you his picture; you'll probably have more luck finding him than I will."

"Relax, Finch, I can handle this," Reese said. "The info on the ex is a huge lead."

"If it's the right lead," Finch said. "He could be in Mexico right now, not giving a second thought to his ex-wife."

"True," Reese acknowledged, "but it's a place to start."

He arrived at Ms. Wallace's apartment and found a place to park a few blocks away, making his way on foot through the quiet residential streets. Finding an inconspicuous place to stand in front of a neighboring apartment, Reese watched through the windows of the second-story apartment as the latest number fixed dinner for herself and her two children. He made a half-hearted attempt to force pair her phone, but he wasn't close enough.

Taking a walk around the neighborhood, he looked for suspicious people or vehicles while he waited for darkness to fall, but all was quiet. Whatever was going to happen involving Ms. Wallace, it didn't look like it was going to happen that evening. He watched the small family enjoy their dinner, his stomach giving a single petulant rumble before giving up. The kids, about eight and ten, he'd guess, then worked on homework while their mother did the dishes. When that was done, they watched a movie together, complete with a big bowl of popcorn.

On the other end of the open line, Reese could hear Finch moving about, making tea, tapping at the keyboard - soft sounds that he found strangely comforting. When the shadows finally deepened, the amber streetlights winking on, Reese slipped into the alley between the two apartment buildings and scaled the fire escape, pausing outside the Wallace's window just long enough to establish a connection with her phone before continuing up to the roof. It was cold without the buildings to stop the wind and he turned up his collar, crouching down in the lee of the heating/cooling unit.

"I paired her cell," he told Finch, his voice low.

"Good, let me see what-" He made a frustrated sound. "Never mind. God-forsaken low-bandwidth wifi, I can't sync with your phone."

"Don't worry about it," Reese said. "I'm right here; I'll keep an eye on them all night. Nothing is going to happen."

"Oh. You're not...I thought you might come back here for a few hours. But no, you're right - you should stay there."

Reese closed his eyes, his chest aching. Finch wanted him, wanted to be with him. It took his breath away that someone who knew everything about him, about everything he'd done, would even speak to him, or be in the same room with him, to say nothing of wanting to share a bed with him. If that was even what Finch meant. He didn't know how to ask without it sounding like an interrogation.

"Harold..." he started, but couldn't find the words to continue.

"I didn't think before I spoke," Finch said softly. "The numbers must always come first. There will be time for..._us_ later."

Reese leaned his head back against the sheet-metal housing of the unit and stared up at the sky, the city lights washing out all but the brightest stars. A jet roared far overhead, headed for LaGuardia. After a moment, he sighed, his breath ghosting white in front of his lips. "Is that enough for you, stolen moments waiting for a later that we both know will never come?"

"There will be time...John," Finch said, only a slight hesitation before he said Reese's name. "We've had days without numbers. We had almost a whole week, remember? The down-time nearly drove you crazy."

Reese smiled. "I remember."

"I am willing to take what I can get. The numbers mean too much to me, the difference we're making is too important. You have no idea - or maybe you do - how lost I was, how hopeless, how consumed by guilt. This is my purpose, my second chance. I can't just walk away. I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Reese said, and he meant it. "I just needed to know if..._this_ was enough."

"Considering that I never expected to share this part of myself with anyone again, _this_ is about all that I can handle at the moment. Not to sound like it's unwanted, just overwhelming."

"I understand. Believe me, I know _exactly_ how you feel." They lapsed into silence again. After a while, Reese said, "Have you eaten yet?"

"No."

"You need to."

"Have you?"

"Not yet. I was just about to." He dug into his coat pocket and pulled out a protein bar. "Care to join me, Harold?"

"I suppose I have time to make a sandwich," Finch said, then he snorted. "Hell, slow as this thing is, I have time to bake the bread from scratch."

"Oh, quit your grumbling," Reese said, smiling even though Finch couldn't see. He waited until he heard Finch sit back down at the table, then he unwrapped his dinner and they ate together in companionable silence.

When the movie was over, Ms. Wallace wrangled her kids into their pajamas, oversaw the brushing of teeth, was unmoved by a round of heartfelt cajoling to stay up _just five more minutes_, and settled them into bed with a story. It sounded like a pretty routine night for the single mother. Sitting on the roof, Reese wondered what it would be like to wake up each morning in the same place, knowing how each day would end. Did people like Margaret Wallace know how lucky they were?

An hour later, she turned off the TV, enjoyed a long bath, and then read in bed until turning off her light at a quarter to ten. As the apartment settled into silence, Reese rose from his cramped position and quietly walked the perimeter of the roof, looking down at the streets and alleyways, his eyes searching for occupied cars or figures lurking in the shadows. If the ex was waiting to break in, he'd do it within an hour of the lights going out. Normal people just didn't have the patience to wait longer.

One hour passed, then two, midnight creeping up and slipping away without a sound. As one o'clock approached, Reese found himself pacing.

"You awake?" he asked, his voice soft.

"Barely," Finch replied. "Still no location on Mr. Roberts. Everything all right on your end?"

"Yes. They've been asleep for a while now, the streets are quiet. I think I'm going to try to catch a couple of hours; you should rest, too."

"I know," Finch said, then he sighed and Reese heard the sound of the laptop being closed. "Excuse me for a minute." The line went silent and Reese frowned, but then smirked as he realized why. Taking Finch's lead, he picked up his empty water bottle.

"Mr. Reese?" Finch said a while later.

"Yes, Mr. Finch," Reese teased. He really didn't mind Finch's formality - it made the times when he used Reese's first name mean that much more.

"Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Harold." Reese expected Finch to end the call, but he heard the sound of the bed covers being turned down, bedsprings creaking, the light switching off, and a low groan from Finch as he settled himself. Reese closed his eyes, imagining his arms wrapped around the quiet man, breathing in the scent of his skin, his warmth soaking into Reese's body. With a sigh, he settled himself back against the housing of the heating/cooling unit and pulled his coat tight around himself.

Opening his eyes, Reese sat for a moment, the creak of a floorboard reaching him through the cell phone in the apartment below. Pushing himself to his feet, one hand slipped beneath his coat, reaching for his gun, but he let it fall away as he caught the distant sound of a toilet being flushed, followed by the soft patter of little feet. Letting out a slow breath, he walked the perimeter of the roof again, surveying the deserted streets below.

It was a quarter to three, almost four hours before Ms. Wallace was due to wake, and Reese found himself unable to go back to sleep, his sudden awakening flooding his system with adrenaline. He paused, listening to Finch's soft snores through the earpiece, and then went back to his position, but he couldn't shake the restlessness in his limbs, the ache in his skin.

_The numbers come first._ Finch was right, but Reese couldn't silence the whisper at the back of his mind trying to convince him that _just this time_ it would be all right to leave his post. The family would be safe. He'd hear if anything happened, if someone tried to break in. But he'd be halfway across town, too far away to do any good. But nothing was going to happen. There was no evidence that the ex even knew where she and her children lived. Since his incarceration, they had moved three times, she'd returned to using her maiden name, and she didn't even have a landline, let alone a listed number. Just this once, it would be okay.

This was why he'd had to sever all ties to his former life, why he'd been discouraged from pursuing anything other than a paid encounter or a one night stand, because emotions were liabilities, they made you weak, irrational, vulnerable. He _knew_ this, and still found himself crossing the roof to the fire escape, descending to the street, and making his way to where he'd parked the car. All the way back to the motel, he kept shaking his head, his grip on the steering wheel tight enough to turn his knuckles white. This was a pointless waste of time; Finch was never going to let him get away with it. Reese would be chastised and sent back out into the night. And still he didn't turn the car around.

Turning out the headlights, he pulled into the motel parking lot. Even this place was quiet and still. Pulling the motel key out of his pocket, he let himself into the room, switching his earpiece over to the Wallace residence as Finch's snores came at him in stereo. The lights from the parking lot bathed the sleeping man for a moment as Reese paused in the doorway, just staring at him. Then he shut and locked the door, carefully toeing off his shoes and shedding his coat as he moved toward the bed.

Finch was in the middle, lying on his back, his neck and shoulders supported by the pillows from both beds. Reese lifted the covers and sank down on the edge of the mattress, pulling his gun out of his waistband and setting it on the nightstand beside Finch's glasses, but as he slid his legs in beside Finch's, the man gave an unexpected start, lashing out with both arms. Reese caught one by the wrist, but received a forearm to his chest that was surprisingly forceful, even if it didn't hurt.

"Easy, Finch," Reese said, letting go as soon as Finch tried to jerk away from him.

"John? What are you doing here? Did something happen?"

"No, nothing happened. Nothing at all...and I thought..." It was fairly obvious, what he thought, and he waited for Finch's reprimand. For a long moment, Finch said nothing, then his hand pressed against Reese's chest, his fingers gripping a handful of Reese's shirt, and Reese found himself being pulled into a deep and fevered kiss. Reese closed his eyes, groaning into Finch's mouth as he felt the other man's tongue against his own. "You're not mad?" Reese asked when Finch paused for breath.

"I trust your judgment," Finch said, deft fingers making short work of the buttons on Reese's shirt. "You never would have left if that family had been in any danger, and...I wanted to ask you to come back, but it seemed...selfish."

"I think we're entitled to be a little selfish once in a while," Reese replied, his heart beating fast as Finch slipped his hands into Reese's shirt, exploring him by touch, those soft fingertips seeking out and lingering on the scars that marked his body - innumerable cuts and burns, the bullet hole above his clavicle where he was shot trying to save Judge Gates' son, the larger, newer scar on his abdomen, still pink and sensitive, but he didn't pull away, didn't give Finch anything less than he would want to receive.

Finch leaned close, pushing Reese's shirt back off one shoulder and pressing his lips to the ridge of Reese's collarbone. Reese gasped as he felt teeth against his skin, every hair on his body standing on end as Finch gave him another exploratory nip, this one harder. He moaned his approval, his body demanding more even though he knew he ought to put a stop to things before they progressed any further. They just didn't have the time.

It wasn't until he felt nimble fingers working his belt loose that he pulled away. Beside him, Finch went perfectly still, then he raised himself up on one elbow and reached over Reese, turning on the bedside light and grabbing his glasses. A small frown creased his brow as he regarded Reese.

"Are you trying to make a liar out of me?" he asked. "Because I'm trying _very hard_ to believe you, but you keep making it more difficult."

"I'm not," Reese assured him, reaching up to cup his cheek. Finch stared back at him, eyes hard, doubting. Reese sighed. "I just...I have to get back to the Wallace place in a couple of hours. There isn't enough time-"

"Time to do what?" Finch asked, arching an eyebrow. "I hate to break it to you, but I'm not twenty anymore and no offense, but neither are you. Two hours - you're going to kill me."

"No, that's not..." Reese shook his head. "I just don't want to fuck and then run off. You mean more to me than that and...and I'm...I don't want to mess this up. All my experience with men comes from training, or working an asset, or getting close to a target. I've never been with a man that I cared about and I want to take the time to do it right."

"If you make love half as well you talk..." Finch said, his expression softening. He leaned close and kissed Reese again, sighing reluctantly as he drew back. "Something tells me I'll never get to find out, not if you keep insisting on the 'right time'. There really isn't such a thing. Trust me, I know. I wasted years waiting for the 'right time', and I nearly lost my chance altogether."

"I won't do that," Reese said, reaching back and turning out the light. "As soon as this thing with Margaret Wallace is settled-"

"And if another number comes up?"

"Then I guess I'll have to give you a rain-check. But we'll find the time, I promise. It doesn't have to be the 'right time' just _more_ time."

"I will hold you to that promise," Finch said and Reese could hear his smile in the near-dark.

"Fine," Reese said, shifting closer and wrapping his arms around the smaller man, "as long as I can hold you right now."


	14. Chapter 14

**Author's Note:** Awesome episode, although I have to admit I was a little disappointed that Finch/Nathan is pretty much non-cannon now. OTOH, I did like the Grace character. Regardless, it's not going to dampen my slash fangirl enthusiasm one bit, lol.

* * *

><p>Finch awoke alone, again. He wasn't hung-over, which was a blessing, but his body was stiff, his sinuses congested, and as he sat up, a heavy, raspy rattle filled his chest. He grabbed the little plastic bedside wastebasket and coughed up more phlegm and mucus than he thought one human body could produce. For that, he was glad he was alone. Except...<p>

"Good morning, Harold," Reese said in his ear. "Sleep well?"

"I slept fine," Finch replied, his voice rough and his disposition not that of a morning person on the best of days. He put his glasses on and glanced at his watch. It was a quarter to seven. "How are Ms. Wallace and her children?"

"Fine," Reese said, taking on a more professional tone. "The kids are still asleep. She's having coffee and reading the paper." There was a pause. "How are you?"

"Fine," Finch said shortly, wincing as he did his stretches sitting on the edge of the bed. He paused to catch his breath and reconsidered his brusqueness. He sighed. "I'm stiff and sore, my chest hurts, my throat is raw, I don't have any clean clothes to put on, I didn't get laid _again_, and I'm just not used to having to converse before I take a shower and have a cup of tea. So I'm sorry if I seem a bit grumpy."

"Grumpy? You sound like your usual charming self to me." There was another pause. "I'm sorry, did you really say you 'didn't get laid again'?"

"Yes, I believe that's the modern vernacular, isn't it?" Reese just chuckled. Finch finished the stretches, the simple exercises unable to alleviate the stiffness and aching, but it would help delay fatigue and cramping. So would a hot shower, but he had experienced a moment of panic just stepping into the bathroom and seeing the tub. He wasn't sure he could actually get in it.

He knew just needed to do it, to get over his fear, to put the experience behind him, to move on...but if it was that easy, he wouldn't be afraid of heights. He considered the facilities in each of his residences, in all the safe houses, in every hotel he'd ever stayed at, but it was the simple stall in the library bathroom that made him feel the most at ease. He had clean clothes in the library, too. And after he fixed the generator and put the hard-drive and motherboard back in his computer, he'd have all the processing power he needed to run facial recognition on the ex-husband.

But the CIA...Would they even still be in the area? A surveillance team, maybe, but after the havoc Reese had caused with his brazen attack, they knew they had been found out. There was no reason to think either he or Reese would go back there. Finch could slip in, make his repairs, take a shower, make a decent sup of tea...There was just one problem.

"Mr. Reese, where did you put that cash you took out of my desk?"

"In my duffel bag, under the bed. Why?"

"While I appreciate the loan of your clothes, I just don't feel like myself. Perhaps I'll be able to think more clearly if I can put on a suit."

"I have the ticket for your dry cleaning in my pocket," Reese said, much as Finch had expected. "I can pick up your clothes once I make sure Ms. Wallace and her kids get to school safely."

"John, you can't coddle me," Finch said firmly. "I won't put up with it. I know you care and you're worried about the CIA, but I really doubt they'll be looking for me in a clothing store. I'll be fine."

There was a long silence. Finally, Reese sighed. "You're right. I just..."

"I know. It's new and strange and you're afraid something will happen and it will all be over. _I know._ But that's just something we'll have to live with, because neither of us is going to change."

"Just be careful," Reese said after a moment.

"I will."

"She's getting the kids up."

They lapsed into silence as Finch got ready to go out, preparing himself as best as he could to be seen in public. He found a gray hoodie in Reese's duffel bag while he was looking for the cash, which would almost hide the fact that he'd slept in his clothes. Grabbing the spare room key and his cell phone, he shoved the hardware from his computer into a paper take-out bag and headed out, a small knot of worry in his gut. Technically, he hadn't lied, but he had by omission and insinuation deceived Reese – not how he had wanted to begin this new phase of their relationship.


	15. Chapter 15

**Author's Note: **The Finale! Alicia! T_T Harold! 0_0 The Machine! ^_^ I have so many feels right now. That was awesome. And since one good cliffhanger deserves another, I hope you enjoy this chapter, lol. However, _I_ won't make you wait until September to see how it works out. ^_^

Thanks for reading and reviewing! And look for a new one-shot on Monday - shower sex, per request. ^_^

* * *

><p>It took some well-timed use of the toggle on his earpiece to give the cab driver the address of a corner within walking distance of the library without Reese overhearing, but luckily getting two young children ready for school was a noisy affair and Reese was fairly preoccupied anyway. Stepping out into the early morning sunshine in what amounted to work-out clothes, Finch felt as self-conscious as if he were wearing a clown costume. The suit had always felt like a disguise, like camouflage in the urban jungle, and walking down the street in sweats felt like venturing into the underbrush with a pork chop hanging around his neck. To make matters worse, he knew there were wolves on the prowl.<p>

He couldn't see any CIA agents, or anyone loitering in the area, as he approached the old, deserted building, but he could feel their eyes, like an itch between his shoulder blades. He told himself he was imagining things. He hoped so, anyway. Slipping in through the side entrance, he locked the door behind him, moving slowly and quietly up the dusty stairs, on the lookout for anything out of place.

Once in the main room, he allowed himself a quiet sigh of relief. Everything was just as he'd left it, with the exception of the dark, silent computers and disabled generator. Stifling a grunt of pain, he knelt down on the cold floor beside the computer tower and pulled the hard-drive out of the bag, carefully sliding it back into place and connecting the appropriate cables. Next came the motherboard, but he'd been building and repairing computers since college. In less time than Reese had needed to take it apart, Finch had everything put back together. Unfortunately, the generator was going to take a bit more time.

Using wire strippers, he removed the plastic coating from the wires, soldered the ends back together, and wrapped each one in black electrical tape. It was a quick, temporary fix, but he'd only need a few hours worth of electricity, and after this whole thing blew over, he'd get a new generator. He'd had his eye on a smaller, more efficient model for a few months, but hadn't had the time or reason to upgrade. Now he did.

He turned it on, holding his breath for a moment as the machine began to hum, waiting to see if the repair held. It did.

"Finch, what's that sound?" Reese asked, making him jump. In the silence of the library, he'd almost tuned out the background noise in his ear.

"A generator," Finch said, unwilling to lie in the face of a direct question. "Any new developments on your end?"

"Not unless having scrambled eggs and toaster waffles counts," Reese said. "Why do I hear a generator? Did the power go out at the clothing store?"

Finch grimaced. From the edge in Reese's tone, he could tell that the operative suspected exactly where he was and was preparing to go on the offensive. Finch's gut reaction was to be evasive and uncooperative, but he held himself in check.

"I'm at the library," Finch said, limping over and taking a seat at the workstation, "and before you lecture me, I was careful. I wasn't seen or followed, and we need this equipment to find Mr. Roberts before something terrible happens. I told you, the numbers come first."

"You also said you wouldn't lie to me."

"I didn't. I said I needed a change of clothes and I do. I said the CIA wouldn't be looking for me in a clothing store and they won't. You inferred the rest."

Reese sighed, a frustrated sound. "How am I supposed to protect you when you go sneaking around behind my back?"

"You don't need to protect me-"

"Yes, I do," Reese said forcefully. "That's why you hired me, remember? Because all I ever wanted to do was protect people, and that includes you. Especially you."

Finch smiled at the unexpected warmth in his chest. "I appreciate it, but I'm safe here. You don't need to worry." The computers finished booting up and he quickly logged in, opening up a search window and doing a broad sweep for Mr. Roberts. "This search is going to take a while, so I'm going to go shower and change while it runs. I'll call you back when I'm done."

"Will you be all right?"

Finch hesitated, fighting the urge to give a generalized answer. "I think so. That's another reason why I came here. It really is the only place I truly feel safe." God, he hated being forthcoming. Honest was one thing, but volunteering information – it felt so foreign. Nathan was the only person he'd ever felt comfortable being open with, and even then, he'd still kept secrets.

"You don't have to hang up, you know," Reese said, a hint of mischief in his voice. "You could leave the phone and earpiece on the counter. Are you prone to singing in the shower?"

"No, but I do masturbate occasionally," Finch replied with a smirk as he rose from his chair, "and since a rather handsome and charming cocktease left me with blue-balls last night, I feel the urge to indulge." His grin broadened at the resulting silence on the other end of the line. "Mr. Reese, are you still there?"

"I- Yeah, Finch, I just...I'm not sure which is more shocking, you saying _cocktease_ and _blue-balls_, or the thought of you jerking off in the shower."

"And what is so shocking about me masturbating?" Finch asked, thoroughly enjoying being on the giving end of the teasing for once. "Do you think I'm too old?"

"No!"

"Too proper?"

"Maybe..."

"Well, I'll have you know I have a healthy and moderately adventurous sexual appetite, which I'll be happy to prove at your earliest convenience." He reached the bathroom and stepped inside, his voice echoing from the tile walls, the hollowness filling him with a vague sense of unease, but it wasn't anything he couldn't deal with. "Do you still want to eavesdrop?"

"I think I better not," Reese said, a slight strain in his voice. "The last thing I need right now is a distraction of that magnitude. Call me back when you're…finished."

"Suit yourself," Finch said and hung up, pulling the earpiece out, his ear sore. The headset was much more comfortable. He pulled towels out of the linen cupboard and set them on the counter, then peeled off his borrowed clothes, dropping them in a pile by the door. He turned on the water in the shower stall, the sound making his heart pound, but he was able to step inside, the hot water beating on his skin. His breathing was fast and shallow, and he flinched whenever water splashed on his face, but he managed to shampoo his hair without having a panic attack.

He briefly considered jerking off, but he wasn't really as worked up as he'd insinuated to Reese, and his lingering memories of being tortured made the shower a less than arousing location. After a moment, he shut off the water and stepped out, quickly drying himself before wrapping a towel around his waist and making his way across the hall to where he kept a few spare changes of clothing.

Clean and dressed in his own clothes, he felt like a new man as he returned to the main work area. As he headed for the corner where he kept his kettle and hotplate, he glanced at the computer monitors, surprised to see a blinking red box on one of the screens. Frowning, he walked over, noting the words _Danger: Critical_ written below in red letters.

Sinking down into his chair, he pulled the keyboard close, calling up the results of the search, and his skin went cold as a cascade of images and data filled the screens, pictures of Mr. Roberts outside of a pawn shop two days ago, one that was known to sell weapons illegally; camera footage from an hour ago of Mr. Roberts shooting a janitor in a nearly empty parking lot, stuffing the body into the back of the man's van, and taking his uniform and ID. Finch's fingers pounded the keys as he looked up the location of the camera.

"Oh, shit," he whispered. He grabbed his phone and the earpiece off the table, but his ear canal was still sore. He tossed it back down and put the cell on speakerphone as he dialed Reese.

"Finished already?" Reese asked.

"Not now, John," Finch said. "We have a serious problem."

"You have no idea," said a familiar voice, and Finch glanced up from his monitors as Agent Snow stepped out of the shadows, one arm in a sling, a bandage on his cheek, and his weapon pointed at Finch.


	16. Chapter 16

**Author's Note:** Thanks for all the reviews! I appreciate every one of them. ^_^

I wanted to take a moment to advertise the Person of Interest Big Bang Challenge going on over at LiveJournal. It's the first one I've ever signed up to participate in, though I've done NaNoWriMo, so it shouldn't be too hard. Just another excuse to write long, smutty fanfic, lol. It needs more participants, though, so if you're an artist or a writer (or both) head on over, join the group, and sign up. Here's the sign-up post: pofinterest-fic. livejournal. com/159277. html - just be sure to remove the spaces after each period.

And now, the next chapter of _Damaged_. Da shit is gettin' real, lol. Once again, Reese can't be in two places at once and has to choose... It looks like there will be one more chapter from Finch's POV, then it'll go back to Reese for a couple, then back to Finch. I think we're getting near the end, less than ten chapters left. Of course, this was supposed to be a one-shot, so what do I know, lol.

* * *

><p>"Is that Snow?" Reese asked, his voice taking on a flat, chilling quality.<p>

"That's right, John," Snow said before Finch could respond, stepping closer and motioning for Finch to put the phone down on the table. "I'm here with your little _friend_."

"I'm on my way," Reese said quietly.

"John, no-" Finch said

"Harold, we talked about this-"

"I found the ex-husband," Finch said, his heart racing as Snow continued to move toward him. "He's armed and he killed a school janitor for his ID badge. He's waiting for her at the school, maybe for all three of them, and God knows how many other victims there could be - kids, John-" He broke off, his voice faltering as Snow pressed the barrel of his pistol to Finch's chest.

"You've got thirty minutes, John, and then I start putting holes in him," Snow said.

"Forget about me - you save that family," Finch said, staring defiantly at Snow, even though he was shaking like a leaf inside. There was something cold, something dead in Snow's eyes as he stared back. This was a killer; this was what Reese had refused to become.

"All right, Mark," Reese said, his voice heavy with defeat. "You win."

"John, no!" Finch yelled.

"Harold, shut up," Reese said. He sounded so tired.

"Tell me where you are," Snow said.

"No," Reese replied. "We're doing this my way. You're going to take my friend to the Eighth Precinct station house and wait for me. When I'm finished with what I have to do, I'll meet you there."

"Like I'm supposed to trust you?" Snow asked.

"You don't have a choice. If you hurt Harold - and I mean put so much as a bruise on him - I'll make Bogota seem like a church picnic. Do you hear me?"

"I hear you, I just can't believe this four-eyed old cripple means that much to you."

"You have no idea what he means to me."

"Why the Eighth?"

"I saw you've been spending some time there," Reese said. "I thought you'd be more likely to agree to a familiar location, and less likely to shoot me in the back in a room full of cops."

"All right, you've got one hour-"

"No. I'll get there when I get there. This is your only chance, Mark. You know me. I don't fuck around."

"Last time I checked, you didn't fuck insurance underwriters, either. Especially male ones. Tell me, does he know who you are, what you've done, why he's being held at gunpoint?"

"Why don't you ask him," Reese said and Finch drew a sharp breath as the line went dead. Snow picked up the phone and tried to call the number back, but it went straight to voicemail. Reese would have disabled the cell immediately to prevent the GPS from being traced. It was part of their protocols, but that didn't stop Finch from feeling isolated and alone.

Snow slipped the cell into his pocket. "Where is he?"

"I'm not telling you," Finch said evenly, turning back to the table. His heart was pounding as he reached out and keyed in the code to trigger the emergency lockout, and he swallowed hard as he heard Snow cock his pistol, but he hit enter without hesitation. The monitors flickered and went dark.

"You think that's going to stop us?" Snow asked.

"I think you should worry about honoring your deal with John," Finch said. "I know what happened in Bogota."

"Oh, yeah? Exactly what sort of fairy story did he tell you? Do you think he's some kind of hero? Is that what he told you?"

"You can save your breath, Agent Snow," Finch said. "I know who John is, I know what he's done, and I know what you, what the Agency _made_ him do. I've read his file - and yours, by the way - the originals, not the redacted versions. I know about the missions that never went into the records - Damascus and Montreal and Berlin. I know more about him than you do."

"And you still think he's going to come save you?"

Finch sighed. "Unfortunately, yes, I do. Now, I was about to make some tea before you arrived. Would you like a cup?"

"I only drink coffee," Snow said.

"Do you mind if I make myself some?"

"No, go ahead, although you might find it hard to enjoy it with these on." He pulled out a pair of handcuffs and Finch felt his chest constrict.

"Is that really necessary?"

"Probably not, but John didn't say I couldn't, and since you won't tell me where he is..." He stepped over and grabbed Finch by the arm, tucking his gun back under his jacket before slapping the cuffs on Finch. The bite of the cold metal made it hard to breathe, but Finch squared his shoulders and set his jaw, refusing to let his fear show. "Let's go," Snow said.

Finch was aching and gasping for breath by the time Snow had finished rushing him down the stairs and out of the building, probably revenge for the injuries Reese had given him. Once outside, Finch slumped against the scaffolding, trying to take the weight off his damaged hip, the scarred muscles threatening to knot up. Snow made a call, saying nothing but their address, and it wasn't more than a few minutes before a shiny, black SUV pulled up at the curb, driven by Snow's unfortunate partner, Agent Evans.

"Where's Reese?" Evans asked.

"Not here," Snow answered. He grabbed Finch by the arm and hustled him over the vehicle, forcing him into the backseat. Thankfully, Snow didn't feel the need to shove him down onto the floorboards again. "Eighth Precinct station," Snow said as he climbed into the passenger's seat. Finch waited for the agent to inform his partner about the scheduled rendezvous, to arrange surveillance and backup, but Snow said nothing, the drive both silent and tense. He caught Evans glancing at him in the rear-view mirror a few times, but he had obviously learned not to question his 'partner'.

Finch found it hard to imagine Reese - curious, playful, flirtatious, stubborn, insufferable, wonderful Reese - working alongside Snow, taking orders from him. It was like picturing a wild horse broken under bit and spur. Some creatures were not meant to be tamed.

They arrived at the Eighth, Evans pulling over into a _No Parking_ zone and starting to get out, but Snow pulled a couple of bills from his pocket and dropped them onto the console between the front seats.

"Get yourself some coffee," he said. "I'll call when I have something."

Evans didn't respond, except to shut his door again and watch Finch in the mirror until Snow hauled him out of the vehicle. The SUV pulled away and Finch tried to swallow down his pounding heart as Snow guided him into the building, his gaze darting around, looking for Detective Carter or Fusco. They were the reason Reese chose the Eighth, Finch was certain, although for what purpose, he didn't know, and he didn't want one or both of them to recognize him and complicate whatever the hell Reese thought he was doing.

Finch saw Fusco first, but the formerly dirty detective did an admirable job of hiding his surprise and feigning disinterest. He pulled out his cell, but Finch didn't want to be caught staring and quickly turned his attention elsewhere. Carter wasn't at her desk, and he couldn't see her anywhere else in the room. He supposed she could be out on a case. He wasn't sure if that would be unfortunate or not; he was not looking forward to being at the center of a daring rescue, and even less enthusiastic about dragging other people into it.

He glanced back at Fusco, who was talking fast and quiet into his phone, leaving Reese a message, most likely. For all the good it would do. But...Fusco could have just as easily gotten up and gone to get coffee instead. He obeyed out of fear, not loyalty. That was what blackmail bought - obedience, nothing more. And yet, there he sat, trying to help. Perhaps he was a better man than they had given him credit for.

Fusco caught and held his eyes for a moment, then turned deliberately. Finch followed his gaze, his shoulders tensing as Carter came stalking out of a long corridor and made directly for them. Was she who Fusco had called? Why? And what had he said? Against Finch's advice, Reese had kept the two 'assets' in the dark about each other. As far as Fusco knew, Carter was still trying to catch them. Was she supposed to be a distraction of some sort? God, he hoped Fusco didn't decide to try playing hero; he'd get everyone killed.

Carter's stride faltered as she caught sight of him, a momentary flash of surprise and confusion in her eyes. He prayed that Snow wouldn't notice.

"Good morning, Detective Carter," Snow drawled as she approached.

"Nice to see you again," she replied, her tone suggesting anything but a warm fuzzy feeling at being in his presence. She gave Finch a cursory look. "Getting so desperate that any guy in a suit will do?"

"He's a person of interest," Snow said.

"Whatever," Carter said. "You want me to stick him in a holding cell for you?"

Finch would have been astounded if Snow had fallen for that ruse, so he wasn't disappointed when he didn't.

"No, thank you, Detective. I prefer to keep this one nearby. I'll need the use of an interrogation room."

"I think they're all being used right-"

"That wasn't a request, Detective."

"All right, I'll see what I can do," Carter said with a forced smile. Finch watched her walk away, a tightness in his gut. As much of a pain in the ass as Carter had been - and continued to be, occasionally - he did not want to see her hurt for his sake. He didn't want anyone to suffer because of him, not again.

"Will you quit fidgeting," Snow said suddenly, grabbing him by the arm. Finch hadn't even realized he'd been shifting his weight, trying to relieve the pain building in his hip.

"Perhaps if I could trouble you for a chair," Finch replied. "Bum leg, you know."

"Yeah, how'd that happen, anyway?" Snow asked, ignoring his request. "Official records say car accident, but then...'official records' also say you sell insurance."

"I was mauled by a flamingo at the Central Park Zoo," Finch said, his tone acerbic.

"Central Park Zoo doesn't have flamingos."

"Must have been a penguin, then. I have such trouble telling the two apart." Snow's grip on his arm tightened. "Careful there. You wouldn't want to leave a bruise. Think of Bogota."

"Bruises take hours to form and John better be in my custody long before then, or bruises will be the least of your worries. I still say I can break you." He leaned closer, his voice low as he spoke in Finch's ear. "What do you think, Harold? Do you want to go back in the tub? All that cold water in your face. Does it make you tremble just to think about it?"

"I showered this morning, thank you," Finch said, but his voice did quaver, just a little. He cleared his throat and took a bracing breath before adding, "Custody? Is that CIA code for shot in the back?"

"I'm not going to shoot him in the back," Snow said. "I have a few questions for our mutual friend, like what the hell it is that the two of you _do_."

Finch's mouth went dry. Snow - the CIA - could never find out about the Machine. There was no telling what they would do with the information. "John will never tell you."

"Oh, I think he will," Snow said, leaning closer still, his lips brushing against the shell of Finch's ear as he whispered, "I know his weakness." Finch couldn't suppress a shudder. After a moment, Snow drew back. "And once I've broken him, and I'm sure there is no more useful information to be gained from him, then I'll shoot him in the head, not the back."

_Over my dead body_, Finch vowed silently. Halfway down the hall, Carter emerged from one of the small interrogation rooms and started toward them, just as her cell rang. She answered it, taking a couple more strides before stopping dead.

"He did _what?_" she asked, loud enough that every head in the bullpen turned in her direction. She didn't seem to notice, staring instead at Finch, her dark eyes blazing with anger. She hung up the phone and stalked over to them. Finch held his breath. "You want to explain why your guy just shot up an elementary school and killed a janitor?" she asked, speaking to Snow. Finch let out a relieved sigh, drawing Carter's attention. "You got something against janitors?"

"Only when they're homicidal ex-husbands in disguise," Finch said.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Carter asked. "Do you know something about this?"

"Not now, Detective," Snow said. Finch stumbled as the agent gave him a shove toward the hall. "We'll be taking that interrogation room now."

"You're not going to go after him?" Carter asked.

"No need," Snow said. He pushed Finch into a small room, the overhead light a migraine-inducing florescent, the cinderblock walls painted a drab green, and the table and chairs bare, scratched metal. Trying not to show how much pain he was in, Finch used his foot to pull out one of the hard chairs, only to have Snow shove it back against the table before Finch could sit down.

"Isn't that a little petty, Agent Snow?" Finch asked, taking small, limping steps backward until he could lean against the wall. Anything to take the weight off his damaged leg.

"It's the little things that wear a man down," Snow replied. Finch regarded him for a moment, then deliberately turned his attention elsewhere. His gaze wandered over the scratched mirror on the wall and up to the camera mounted near the ceiling in the corner. Of the two, it bothered him more to think about who might be behind the mirror, watching them. He _knew_ who was watching through the camera, or rather, _what_ was watching.

Would the Machine recognize this as a threat to him? Would it try to contact Reese again? And when it couldn't reach his cell phone, then what would it do? He'd built the thing from the ground up, every wire, every circuit, every line of code, and to not know what his creation would do in a certain situation was a little unnerving. There were no protocols for this, so realistically, it shouldn't do anything, just log the event and continue watching, but it shouldn't have texted Reese, either, so God only knew what Frankenstein's monster was capable of.


	17. Chapter 17

**Author's Note:** Warning! Rant ahead!

Sorry this chapter is late, I was prohibited from posting because of "Rating: explicit content or adult content above current rating" which resulted in the removal of _Hard Water_. Which is funny because none of my other M-rated stories have been removed, and their content is NO DIFFERENT from _Hard Water_. In fact, I'd say the content of both _Caught in the Act_ stories was WORSE than _Hard Water_. Whatever.

So, I won't be posting any more M-rated stories, since clearly MY idea of what constitutes an M-rating is different from FFN's. I'll continue posting _Damaged _and _Dream a Little Dream of Me_ since the majority of the content of those stories is below the rating, but when we get to the smutty scenes, I'll probably edit out all the good stuff. :(

However, I'll be posting unedited versions over on Archive of Our Own and on my new Wordpress website/blog. I used Wordpress to post my original fiction and I really like the layouts, user-friendly interface, and best of all, no one reporting me to the thought police. (Still a little pissed, but I'll get over it.) You can check out my WIP POI archive here: katicalockefanfic. wordpress. com - just remember to delete the spaces after each dot.

And now, the next chapter. I hope you enjoy!

* * *

><p>Half an hour later, Finch was about ready to just sit on the floor, the pain in his hip and lower back nearing a critical level. He wasn't sure how much more he could take, but he knew Reese would be coming for him soon and he didn't want to hinder the rescue any more than necessary. Every noise outside the door made him twitch, every ringing phone, every raised voice catching his attention, and he knew Snow could see it, but the agent was also waiting, facing the door with his weapon in his hand.<p>

"Still think he's coming for you?" Snow asked, the first words they'd exchanged since entering the room.

"I think he should have killed you when he had the chance," Finch replied. They both jumped as a shot rang out, followed by screaming and shouting. Snow lunged at Finch, grabbing him by the arm and propelling him toward the door. Every step was agony, like he had shards of broken glass embedded in his muscle tissue, but he hardly noticed, his heart pounding in his throat as Snow pushed him out into the bullpen, where two dozen police officers had their weapons drawn and pointed at Reese.

Reese was using Detective Fusco as a human shield, his back against the wall and his gun pointed at the detective's head. Under the circumstances, Reese looked unnaturally calm, his gaze sweeping the crowd, searching. He stopped when he spotted Finch, the relief evident in his intense eyes. Finch, however, didn't share his feelings. As far as rescue plans went, this one didn't appear very well thought out.

"Everyone shut up," Snow ordered and the handful of officers trying to convince Reese to put his weapon down fell silent. "What are you going to do now, John?" Snow asked. "We gonna trade hostages and go our separate ways? Cause I hate to break it to you, but you can shoot that fat bastard for all I care. You're not getting out of here alive unless you surrender right now."

"Getting out of here was never part of the plan," Reese said in that low, slightly unhinged tone of voice. "Take those cuffs off of him and let him go...and I'll put my gun down."

"John, don't-" Finch said, his words choked off as Snow grabbed him by the back of the collar, the knot of his tie digging into his windpipe.

"Put that gun down or I'll make sure this crippled old geek of yours dies in a hole in Guantanamo."

"Don't fuck with me, Mark. I'm ready to die for him. Are you?"

Finch could feel Snow hesitate. "If I let him go, you'll surrender?"

"My life for his - that's the best deal you're ever going to get."

Finch drew a rattling breath as Snow let go of his collar, the mucus still in his lungs making him want to cough, but he fought the urge, his gaze fixed on Reese as Snow released the cuffs.

"All right, John - your turn," Snow said, holding up the empty cuffs.

"Go on, Harold; get out of here," Reese said, glancing toward the front entrance. Finch started to shake his head - pointless and irrational as it was, he couldn't just walk away - but Reese was having none of it. "You need to go now. The Numbers come first, remember?"

Finch was shaking inside as he turned to Snow. "This isn't over."

"You're damn right about that," Snow said with a mirthless smile. Finch cast one last glance at Reese, then hobbled out of the room as fast as his screaming body would allow. His steps might have been slow, but his mind was racing, scrambling to formulate a plan. Daring rescues weren't his forte. He couldn't follow them - he didn't have a car at the station, a cab would be too obvious, and the CIA were trained in evasion techniques. He couldn't track Reese's phone, it was turned off, but Snow had taken Finch's. If Finch could get back to the library - assuming it wasn't overrun with agents - he could track his own cell and-

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to stop right there."

Finch stopped, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as he looked up to find a pair of uniformed cops standing in front of the main precinct doors, blocking his way. "Oh, I- I was just giving a statement - someone broke into my car - and I need to go pick up my granddaughter from preschool-"

"I'm sorry, sir, but no one is allowed to leave right now," one of the officers said. "We have an ongoing situation and-"

Finch stiffened, his blood going cold as a pained shout rang out behind him, followed by scuffling and thumping. Finch could do nothing more than step out of the way as a horde of officers and detectives came flooding through the hall, with Snow and Reese at the center of the commotion. Reese's hands were cuffed behind his back and blood flowed freely from a cut above his left eye, his right cheek already showing signs of swelling and bruising. Their eyes met, pale blue-gray eyes filled with regret, with sadness and resignation. He was giving up.

Finch took a step forward, his fists clenched, fully aware of the folly and futility of getting involved, but he couldn't just stand there and let Reese be dragged away to a slow and tortuous death. He had to do something.

He was stopped after that first step by two officers. "Agent Snow, what do you want us to do with him?" one of them asked and Snow glanced back, a smug smile on his face.

"Lock him up," Snow said. "I'll send someone for him later."

"Mark, you sonofabitch!" Reese shouted. "Leave him alone; he doesn't know anything!"

"I'll be the judge of that," Snow said, shoving Reese forward. He glanced back at Finch. "Oh, and don't let Detective Carter near him." Finch could only stare after Reese as Snow and the cops wrestled him out through the glass double doors. Hands seized him by the arms and cold metal bit into his wrists as another pair of cuffs was slapped into place.

_This was all his fault._ Numb, Finch allowed himself to be escorted back through the bullpen and down a long hall toward the holding cells. His limp was pronounced and painful, his progress slow, and the entire precinct seemed to be watching him pass. He saw Carter in her captain's office, arguing animatedly with him, a look of frustration on her face. She saw him and fell silent, watching through the window of the office as he passed. _This was all his fault._ He let his gaze drop to the floor.

"I'll take it from here, boys," said a familiar voice and Finch glanced up to see Detective Fusco standing in the hall.

"Hey, Fusco, you okay?" one of the cops asked. "That guy looked ready to blow your head off."

"Of course. It's all part of the job, right? You don't mind if I have a few words with Mr. Sunshine's little friend here, do you?"

"Go ahead, so long as he's ready when the spook squad comes for him."

"Not a problem," Fusco said, taking hold of Finch's arm. "This shouldn't take long." The officers went back to the bullpen, Fusco casting a quick glance over his shoulder as he escorted Finch down the hall. Before they reached the holding cells, though, Fusco pulled out his set of keys and quickly unlocked an unmarked door. It led into a barely lit stairwell.

Once the door locked behind them, Fusco turned to Finch and sighed. "Well, that's not how I expected to spend my morning." He quickly unlocked Finch's cuffs. "So, what's the plan?"

"You mean John didn't tell you?" Finch asked.

"No, he just said to get you out of here. He said you'd know what to do."

Finch felt lost, helpless, just like he had before he'd met Reese. He glanced around the stairwell. "We're not out of here, yet, Detective. Up or down?"

"Up," Fusco said, confirming Finch's suspicion that life hated him. Downstairs would have been miserable, but going up would be impossible.

"I can't," Finch said. "My leg..."

"It's the only way to avoid the cameras," Fusco said. "There's a back hall on the second floor that leads to a service elevator. We can take that down to the garage."

"It's a fine plan, Detective, but _I can't_." As usual. Fucking worthless body.

"Sure we can," Fusco said, stepping toward him. "It's this leg, right? So just put your arm across my shoulders-" Finch drew back, his whole body tensing. "C'mon, Finch, I ain't gonna bite."

"That's not- I just-" Finch threw his arm across Fusco's shoulders, stiffening as he felt the detective's arm around his waist. "I'm not used to being..._handled_ in such a way."

"Yeah, this is a first for me, too," Fusco said, grunting as they began climbing the stairs. It was anything but pleasant, but once Finch accepted that he could let Fusco support his weight, it wasn't quite so painful. Awkward as hell, but not as painful. "So," Fusco said after a minute, both of them puffing and out of breath, "we're gonna get him back, right?"

"Why, Detective, you almost sound like you care," Finch said, using an acerbic remark to avoid answering a difficult question, one that he didn't want to admit that he didn't know the answer to.

Fusco shrugged. After a few more steps, he said, "I didn't grow up wanting to be a dirty cop, you know. I wanted to help people. Then suddenly ten years is gone and I'm in so deep I can't see daylight. Our guy really did me a favor when he blew up my car. Now I get be a little more like I always wanted - one of the good guys. So yeah, I care. I wish he'd quit riding my ass so hard all of the time, but I do care."

Finch was silent for a moment. He hadn't realized how much of an impact they'd had on the detective. "Yes, Detective Fusco," he said finally, "we'll get him back."


	18. Chapter 18

**Author's Note:** Well, it looks like I underestimated the number of chapters remaining. The bunnies just keep giving me more plot to work with. I've got another chapter of _Be Careful What You Wish For_ and _Dream a Little Dream of Me_ almost ready to post. I was going to post them over the weekend, but it looks like I'm house-sitting so I probably won't have a chance. Look for them early next week and remember, you can find all my work in all its smutty glory over on Wordpress - katicalockefanfic. wordpress. com

* * *

><p>It was hot inside the heavy black hood, the air stale, bitter, the coffee on his breath starting to make him nauseated. Or perhaps that queasy feeling was caused by fear. There were few things on the planet that frightened Reese, but Mark was one of them. Reese had seen the man in action, he knew exactly what he was capable of, and he was afraid.<p>

He hid it well, of course, lounging in the back seat, his limbs loose and relaxed, his breathing slow and even, as though here were on a Sunday drive and not handcuffed in the back of a CIA vehicle, a hood over his head and the barrel of a handgun biting into his ribs, on his way to some generic hotel room where he would be tortured, then executed. For as long as he could remember, he'd known this was how he was going to die. Maybe not the details, but a violent death had always been in his cards. He was resigned to it. The only thing that really bothered him was leaving Finch. Finch would blame himself for this.

The vehicle lurched to a stop and Reese tensed, his heart rate accelerating. He heard car doors opening, closing, opening, and he was roughly pulled from the back seat, his feet hitting pavement. He stumbled and was punched in the ribs. Gasping, he was dragged out of the warmth of the sun into the cool, climate-controlled atmosphere of a building. There was carpet under his feet as he was forced down a long hall. Definitely a hotel. Didn't these guys ever think outside the box?

Mark did. Reese shuddered, remembering just how _creative_ he could be. Finally, he was turned ninety degrees, he heard the sound of a door opening, and he was propelled forward and shoved down into a hard, metal chair. His socks and shoes were removed, his shirt unbuttoned, and the hood was finally jerked off of his head. Blinking hard against the sudden, glaring light in his eyes, Reese peered all around the room, trying to identify his location. He'd stayed in a couple dozen different hotels since he'd started working with Finch, but this wasn't one he recognized. It took only a moment longer to realize that he wasn't in a hotel at all.

The hall was carpeted, but the floor of the room was old, linoleum tile, probably the kind that contained asbestos, which put him in an old building, most likely one that had been abandoned or closed down for health concerns. The walls were drab tan, the paint chipped, water damage to the ceiling tiles, the windows boarded up from the outside, the wire mesh still holding the glass in place. The only furniture in the room was the metal chair he was sitting in and an institution-grade metal bed frame standing against the wall, the mattress thin, ripped, and stained.

"Figure out where you are yet?" Mark asked, his voice coming from right behind Reese. "Let me give you a hint - it's where you're going to die."

"Of boredom?" Reese replied. "Because if this is the best you've got, I may have to take a nap."

"Don't worry, I'll make sure you stay conscious," Mark replied. He stepped around in front of Reese, removing the sling that supported his right arm before shrugging out of his jacket and rolling up his shirt sleeves. Reese could see the bulkiness of a bandage under his shirt and his movements were stiff and pained. "Back in the sixties, this was a private mental institution, where the wealthy could discreetly dispose of embarrassing relatives or gay sons or cheating wives. When it was closed down, the health department discovered hundreds of partial files detailing unnecessary lobotomies and shock therapy and experimental drug trials. Lucky for us, much of their old equipment is still here."

Reese cringed inwardly at the words 'shock therapy', but he kept his face impassive as Mark continued.

"I know none of this scares you, John. Nothing that I could do to you would break that stubborn streak. Which is why you get to watch while I play with your little friend." Reese tensed and Mark smirked. "I thought so. As we speak, Evans is on his way back to the Eighth to collect your four-eyed fuck-buddy."

"You'll never break him," Reese said. And if Fusco valued his life, Mark better not get the chance to try.

"Never is an awfully long time, John," Mark said. "I'll admit the little geek is tougher than he looks, but he's not the one who's going to crack. How much pain can you bear to see him in? How long before you talk to save him, because that's what you really want, isn't it? To _save_ people? Like you're some goddamn superhero? That's what you and your sidekick do, isn't it? Play Batman and Robin?"

"I guess that makes you the Joker," Reese replied and he laughed, staring defiantly up at Mark. A small twitch at the corner of Mark's mouth, a slight tightening of the skin around his eyes, gave away the anger inside him. Mark hated being laughed at. Reese knew the blow was coming, but he did nothing to try to avoid it. The punch hit him square on the left side of his jaw, splitting his lower lip and sending a trickle of blood running down his chin.

"Anger management classes didn't take, I see," Reese said, ignoring the stinging and throbbing in his lip and jaw.

"Always with the witty comeback," Mark said. "You never did know when to keep your fucking mouth shut." They were interrupted by a sound outside the room - a low rumbling and an intermittent squeak; some kind of cart being pushed down the hall, one with a squeaky wheel. "Ah, let's see what the boys have found for us to play with, shall we?" Reese steeled himself as the cart was wheeled into the room, two young agents - tier one boys, as Kara used to call them - giving him wary looks and a wide berth as they pushed the laden metal cart over to the foot of the bed.

Mark stepped over to the cart, looking down at the collection of outdated machinery and implements, taking his eyes off of Reese for a split second. That was all he needed. Muscles bunching, flexing, Reese lunged to his feet, crashing into Mark and sending both of them stumbling across the room. Mark grunted as Reese slammed him against the wall, Reese planting his bare feet on the linoleum and leaning hard against the other man, digging the bony part of his shoulder into Mark's bullet wound. Mark screamed, filling Reese with a dark mix of satisfaction and pleasure.

Hands grabbed him by the arms, dragging him back, but he left Mark with a final parting shot, bringing his knee up hard into Mark's groin, leaving him doubled over and struggling to draw breath. Watching Mark gasp and choke, spittle dangling from his lower lip, his face red, Reese didn't even feel the fists that pummeled his ribcage. He struggled and kicked, pain in his shoulders as they wrenched on his arms, still cuffed behind his back, pain in his side as one of his ribs cracked, a grim smile pulling at his lips. Broken rib, punctured lung, drowning in his own blood - all things considered, not a bad way to go.

"Stop," Mark said, his voice strained. "Knock it off, you idiots. That's what he wants. Just secure him, but don't kill him before I have the chance." Reese was forced back down into the chair, one of the two agents grabbing a long, padded leather restraining strap off the cart and wrapping it around his chest and the chair back, pulling it tight until Reese could hardly draw a full breath. They wrapped another around his thighs and the seat of the chair, but he still managed to kick one of them in the face as they bent down to tighten the strap. The response was a hearty backhand across the face, but it was worth it.

"Now get out," Mark said. "Wait in the hall for Evans." Once they were gone, he turned to Reese. "Think you're clever, do you? You're just making things harder on yourself. Tell me what you and your friend have been doing and I won't have to hurt him. Tell me and I will let him go."

Reese licked his swollen and bloodied lip before drawing a shaking breath. "We help people," he said finally.

"Why?"

"Because they need help."

"How do you know who needs help? Where do you get your information?"

"Detective Carter," Reese said, seeing a flash of triumph in Mark's dark eyes. "She hears about cases, problems that the police can't handle, and she climbs to the roof of the Eighth Precinct and shines the Bat-signal into the air, and the Boy Wonder and I grab our tights and capes and-"

Mark punched him in the face again, his teeth cutting through his upper lip and a fresh trickle of blood running down his chin to drip onto his chest. Reese just laughed. Before Mark could hit him again, the shrill ring of a cell phone filled the room. Eyes blazing with fury, Mark took a step back and pulled his phone out of his pocket. He glanced at the screen before answering.

"You better have him."

Reese held his breath, his heart suddenly pounding. Had Fusco gotten Finch out of danger, or had he seen it as an opportunity to get rid of them both? The look on Mark's face was all the answer he needed and he let out his breath in a relieved rush. He owed Fusco big for this. Too bad he'd never get the chance to repay him.

"Find him," Mark ordered. "Look everywhere, question everyone. _Do not _come back without him." He hung up and put the cell away, just standing there for a moment taking slow, deliberate breaths. "Well," he said finally, "it looks like your boyfriend won't be joining us quite yet, so it'll just be you and me."

"That's fine, Mark," Reese said. "Whatever you want to do. You can't hurt me now."


	19. Chapter 19

**Author's Note:** I had a real hard time with this chapter. I wasn't sure if I should even write it, but I finally convinced myself that I should. After all, I wrote Finch's torture scene, and I think it's important to understand the trauma that Reese goes through. Plus, I wanted you all to hate Snow even more than you already do. ^_^

Obligatory website pimping: katicalockefanfic. wordpress. com

**Warnings:** For this chapter, physical torture and implied rape, past and present, nothing graphic or explicit, but if that sort of thing bothers you, please proceed with caution.

* * *

><p>Mark stepped over to the cart and began looking through the assortment of horror movie props - old bone-saws, scalpels, pliers, and glass syringes. He picked up the electrodes from the shock therapy equipment, considering the small metal terminals and brittle, old cord. After a moment, he yanked each of the terminals free, letting them drop to the floor. Reese watched, an uneasy feeling growing in the pit of his stomach as Mark began stripping back the cracked plastic sheath covering the wires. After baring a few inches on each side, he picked something else up off the cart.<p>

"Do you know what this is, John?" Mark asked, holding the implement up for him to see. It was long and slender, about ten inches in length with a tapering point at one end and a flat sort of grip at the other, making it look like an oversized nail viewed from the side. Reese didn't know and he couldn't think of a smart-assed response, so he said nothing. Mark smirked at his silence. "It's an orbitoclast, used to perform transorbital lobotomies. Instead of drilling a hole in the patient's skull, this little beauty was hammered in through the eye socket and then wiggled around to sever the frontal lobe from the rest of the brain. But I've just thought of a much better use for it."

He took one side of the wire and wrapped it around the handle of the orbitoclast, then picked up a second one and wrapped the other side of the wire around it. He plugged the machine into the wall and Reese held his breath, every muscle in his body taut as a piano wire as Mark began pushing buttons and flipping switches. The machine began to hum, like a hive of angry, electric bees, and Mark wheeled the cart closer.

"Last chance, John, and then things are going to get unpleasant. What do you and your friend do?"

"We go out to dinner sometimes," Reese said, clinging to his defiance in the face of the fear that coursed through him, making him tremble inside. "Long walks in the park, lazy Sunday mornings reading the paper, that sort of thing."

Mark didn't respond, except to pick up one of the orbitoclasts and place the extremely pointed tip against Reese's upper arm. Reese tensed, gritting his teeth and clearing his mind, trying to find a memory, a moment he could escape to, searching for an emotion strong enough to tether him, to make the memory real. He thought of Finch, scared and helpless, shaking like a leaf in Reese's arms as they stood in the shower, he remembered the protective fire that burned within him, fueled by anger and tempered with love. He loved him, enough to die for him, just as Finch had been willing to die for Reese-

Pain crashed against the walls of his mental haven, like waves pounding the rocks at the edge of a storm-tossed sea. He drew short, hissing breaths as Mark drove the pointed implement into his flesh, using a small, rubber mallet to hammer the orbitoclast down along his left biceps, a quarter of an inch beneath his skin. Each tap of the hammer sank it half an inch farther, the muscles burning, screaming as they clenched around the foreign object-

Reese focused on Finch, on the way he felt, on the way he smelled, on the noises he made as they lay together in bed, Finch's hands moving over his skin, Finch's lips surprisingly agile and determined. _Finch had wanted him._ He'd seen the darkness that hid inside Reese, he knew the evil things that he'd done, and he _still_ wanted him-

He choked back a scream as the point of the second orbitoclast was shoved beneath his skin, this time on the back of his arm, the mallet making a sickening _thud...thud...thud_ sound as it struck the broad end of the surgical tool, jarring his whole body as the pointed implement sank deeper into his flesh-

_Finch_. _Harold_. Reese found himself struggling to remain disconnected from his body. His feelings for Finch weren't enough anymore, they were too new, and too little acted upon. _Fuck, why hadn't he made love to Finch when he had the chance?_ He remembered standing in the shower with Finch just before he'd stormed out, anger and frustration rattling within him. He'd felt so..._helpless_, because there was nothing he could do, nothing he could say, to make Finch believe him. He grabbed on to that anger, held it tight, and wrapped himself in it like a protective barrier against the pain-

Reese screamed, his body instinctively trying to jerk away from the cold, electric fire that exploded beneath his skin, the muscles in his upper arm clenching, knotting, fraying, burning-

It stopped. Reese slumped in the chair, gasping for breath and choking on his own spit. His arm continued to ache and throb, the muscles jumping, twitching beneath his skin.

"That was the lowest setting," Mark said, sounding quite pleased with himself. "Ready to talk now?"

"I'm going to cut off your balls and make you eat them," Reese replied, his voice hoarse and ragged. Mark flipped the switch again and Reese's scream filled the room, his body twisting, straining against the restraints. When Mark turned the electricity off again, Reese drew a rattling breath and sobbed. His fingers were cold and tingling, a sign of nerve damage, probably.

"Smells like somebody's barbecuing pork ribs," Mark said and Reese grunted in pain as he pulled the two orbitoclasts free, only a small trickle of blood welling up from the two puncture wounds.

"Giving up al- already?" Reese panted. "You always were a quitter, Mark."

"Don't you wish," Mark said, laying the bloody spikes on the cart and picking up an old scalpel. He cut through the fabric of Reese's trousers, ripping one leg off from mid-thigh down. Then he picked up one of the orbitoclasts and Reese had to fight the urge to throw up.

Teeth clenched until his jaw ached, he bore the pain in silence as Mark positioned the two spikes, one in the inside of his thigh from just above his knee to just before his groin, the other down the inside of his calf, but as soon as Mark flipped that switch, he couldn't stop the scream that ripped from his throat. The pain, the blue-white fire that crackled beneath his skin, made his sixteen hours in that cave seem like a fond memory.

When it finally stopped, Reese gasped, choked, and vomited, coffee and bile splattering across the floor and running down his chest. It took a moment to realize that he'd lost control of his bladder as well.

Without warning, Mark turned the machine back on. Reese screamed and writhed, the urine soaking the crotch of his trousers and puddled beneath him in the seat of the chair conducted the electricity straight to his balls and ass, the pain unimaginable.

Mark flipped the switch and Reese went limp, sobbing and gagging as a black cloud descended upon him, making him light-headed and tempting him with promises of sweet oblivion. A sharp slap across the face made him draw a rasping breath and he blinked, looking up at Mark.

"I told you I'd keep you awake."

Reese's lip had started bleeding again, his whole body twitching and shaking, his heart racing. When he was able, he took a deep, shuddering breath and spat, blood, bile, and spit flecking Mark's white shirt.

"Fuck you," Reese grated out, his voice like gravel being ground underfoot.

Mark started to reach for the switch again and Reese tensed, but then the CIA agent let his hand fall back to his side. "You're tough, John, I'll give you that. It's what made you such a fine agent, but you can be dumber than shit sometimes. What is so fucking important; what could possibly be worth this?"

"Something you could never understand, you soulless son-of-a-bitch."

"I see," Mark said, and he stood there, regarding Reese for a long moment. Finally, he turned back to the cart and picked up a small, leather case that looked brand-new. "I was hoping I'd get to use this," he said, unzipping the case to reveal a small, modern glass vial of a clear liquid and a slender hypodermic needle. "The side-effects can be unpredictable, so I was advised to keep it as a measure of last resort, but it looks like you leave me with no choice."

Reese watched, his mouth dry and gummy, as Mark pierced the safety seal of the vial and drew several CCs of liquid into the syringe. "You know that's not going to work," Reese rasped. "I got the same training you did on how to resist the effects of LSD, MDMA, sodium pentothal-"

Mark chuckled. "This shit makes those look as effective as tic-tacs." He stepped over beside Reese and shoved his head to one side, exposing the side of his neck. Reese fought against him, but couldn't avoid the sharp sting of the needle being jabbed into his artery and the cold burn of the drug being injected into his bloodstream.

"What's it going to do to me?" Reese asked as Mark stepped back and dropped the syringe on the cart beside the vial.

"You'll find out soon enough," Mark said. "While we wait for it to take effect, I've got a score to settle with you." He pulled the orbitoclast out of Reese's calf and wiped the blood on Reese's pants before working the stainless steel implement down between Reese's thighs and pressing the length of it against his crotch. "My balls still hurt," Mark snarled, then stepped back and flipped the switch.

Reese bucked so violently the chair almost tipped over, his hoarse scream echoing from the walls before fraying down to a thin, reedy whistle, and then everything went mercifully black.

He was slapped awake only a few moments later, his body aching, muscles racked with spasms, and his breathing labored. Mark released the handful of hair he'd been using to hold Reese's head still, and Reese could only sit there with a growing feeling alarm as his head flopped forward, his chin against his chest. He tried to lift it, but could only manage a slight rocking motion from side to side, and after a moment, even that was too hard.

Mark's hand cupped his chin and raised his head, a smug smirk on the narrow face. "Figure out what that drug does yet?" he asked. He let go of Reese's chin, letting his head drop, his chin hitting his chest hard enough to make his teeth clack together. Mark pulled the remaining orbitoclast out of Reese's thigh, then dropped them on the cart. He pushed the chair over beside the bed, then proceeded to unfasten the straps that held Reese down. Once the straps were tossed aside, Mark pulled out his keys and unlocked the handcuffs.

"There you go, John," he said. "You're free to go. Just get up and walk out. What's the matter?" he asked when Reese didn't- _couldn't_ move. Then Mark laughed. "Got nothing witty to say now, do you?" Slowly, Reese's ass was sliding forward on the seat, his body slouching lower in the chair, threatening to spill him onto the floor. Mark grabbed him before he could fall, one hand at his collar, the other gripping the back of his belt, and Mark heaved him onto the bed, face-down on the mattress. It stank of urine and mildew, the scratchy cloth pressing against his mouth and nose, smothering him.

"Don't want you to pass out from lack of oxygen," Mark said, turning his head to the side so he could breathe. "I want you fully conscious for this. That's the beauty of this drug - you can't move a muscle, but you'll be able to feel _everything_."

_No more, no more, no more!_ shouted a voice inside his head that sounded alarmingly like his own, but it didn't matter. He couldn't have talked if he'd wanted to. What purpose was there in torturing him if he couldn't break? What good was this drug if it prevented him from giving up the information?

Mark reached beneath him and unbuckled his belt, his hands fumbling with the button and zipper. He made a disgusted sound. "You really made a mess of yourself, John. Piss everywhere. Didn't you ever learn not to wet your pants?" He grabbed Reese's slacks and jerked them down around his knees, then worked down the wet boxer-briefs. "And look at that, you twisted bastard - you came. You got off on this. Did you like the way it felt with the electricity coursing through your cock and balls? You must have, you nearly filled your underwear. See?"

Reese mentally recoiled as Mark smeared the cold, thick slime down his cheek and over his lips, but he was helpless to do anything about it.

"I bet right about now you're wondering what the purpose of this is, since you can't talk," Mark said, moving the chair aside and stepping back where Reese could see him. "Talking will come later. It's one of the side-effects as the drug wears off. And no, you won't be able to fight it. But until then..." Reese watched, horrified, as Mark unbuttoned his pants and unzipped his fly, pulling out his cock and stroking it to hardness. "It's going to be just like old times."

_I don't remember-_

"Oh, you don't remember me fucking you?" Mark asked with a smirk. "I'm sure you remember waking up hung-over after celebrating the end of nearly every mission we worked together. You were so innocent and trusting back then, it wasn't even a challenge to slip a little something special in your drink."

Reese felt like he was going to be sick, but his unresponsive body wouldn't even let him throw up. Mark stepped closer, still stroking himself, and the bedsprings groaned as he climbed on, straddling Reese's legs. "Now John, you'll let me know if I get too rough, won't you?" Mark asked, his cold, heartless laugh echoing inside Reese's head and mingling with his own screams.


	20. Chapter 20

Finch was in a state of full-blown panic, his heart racing, his mind circling around the same, unhelpful thought - _This was all his fault._ Reese had warned him to stay away from the library, had cautioned him to be careful, but he hadn't listened. And now Reese was God only knew where, suffering some unspeakable torture, and where was Finch? Having a panic attack on the sidewalk outside the library, of no use to anyone.

After escaping from the Eighth Precinct station in a car Fusco had helped him steal, he'd ditched the car and hailed a cab, giving an address near the library without thinking. It was his hub, his sanctuary, the center of his solar system, and the only place where he'd have the tools to give him a chance of finding Reese.

But now he hesitated. What if Snow had agents waiting inside for him? He wouldn't be any good to Reese if he were captured. But he wasn't doing any good standing on the sidewalk, either. Finally, he couldn't take it any more and he pushed through the gates and plastic sheeting draped over the scaffolding, punching in his security code with a trembling hand, but the system was dead, probably by Snow. He'd have had to disarm it to get inside earlier.

Moving cautiously, Finch entered the old, silent building, looking for incongruous footprints in the dust as he made his way up the stairs to the second floor. Every dark corner, every noise from the street below made him tense and jump, familiar shadows suddenly menacing, open doorways suddenly a threat. He limped slowly down the long corridor toward the center of operations, finally allowing himself to breathe a sigh of relief as he emerged into the main room, the quiet hum of his electronics the only sound in the silence.

Making a beeline for his chair, Finch dropped down into the seat with an audible cry. The pain in his hip and lower back had reached an intensity that not even prescription painkillers would be able to touch, not that he'd allow his mind be muddled by narcotics. He was having enough trouble concentrating as it was. Reaching out, he pulled his keyboard closer and glanced at his monitors, a frown creasing his brow. Why- _How_ were the monitors on? He'd triggered the emergency lockout before Snow had taken him. And perhaps even more disconcerting was the nature of the information displayed on the screens.

It was briefs of all of their cases - Theresa Whittaker and Judge Gates and Andrea Gutierrez and Leila - all of them, and that wasn't what he'd been looking at before the lockout.

A soft sound behind him sent a thrill of fear coursing through his veins and he started to turn the chair, only to feel cold metal press against the back of his neck, just above his collar.

"Are you armed?" asked a smooth, calm voice, one Finch quickly identified as Agent Evans.

"No," Finch said, ashamed of the tremor in his voice. The gun against his head withdrew, but he didn't dare move.

"Keep your hands where I can see them," Evans said, moving into Finch's line of sight. They regarded each other for a moment, then much to Finch's surprise, Evans tucked his gun away inside his jacket. "This is what you do?" Evans asked, nodding his head toward the monitors. "You helped these people?"

"Yes."

"And over there-" He nodded toward the List. "Those were people you didn't help?"

"_Couldn't_ help," Finch corrected.

"I see," Evans said, his gaze moving slowly back and forth between the monitors and the List, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow. "Reese," he said simply and Finch nodded.

"How did you unlock my system?" Finch asked.

"I didn't have to," Evans said. "It was just like that when I arrived. I didn't touch anything."

That didn't make any sense, but Finch found it hard to believe Evans was lying. He had no reason to. "So what now?" Finch asked after a moment. "Will you take me to Agent Snow?"

"No."

"I beg your pardon?" Finch had to have heard him wrong.

"I'm afraid Agent Snow has lost sight of our mission this time. He's let it become personal, and while I can't stand against him, that doesn't mean I have to be successful all of the time. There's no reason why I have to find you. You don't seem to have done anything wrong, unless putting your faith in the wrong person is a crime." Something in his tone made Finch think that he believed he'd be guilty of the same thing.

"I didn't put my faith in the wrong person," he said. "John is a _good_ man, even if I'm the only one who can see that. Please, tell me where he's being held."

"I can't."

"Agent Evans, I _need_ him."

"And I need to follow orders. You may not be a threat, but I'm not convinced that he isn't, and until I'm ordered otherwise, Reese must be neutralized. Detained and brought in for questioning if possible, eliminated if necessary."

"Always with the fucking orders," Finch muttered, peeling off his glasses and rubbing his face with one hand. God, he was so tired. "Agent Evans," he started, but when he looked up, the man was gone. Finch sighed and put his glasses back on, then turned to the monitors, surprised to see them all black again, the information vanished. All except for a single nine digit number. Finch turned away, a churning in his gut. He couldn't deal with this right now. He couldn't help them, not without Reese. If only Reese hadn't disabled his phone, Finch could have tracked-

"Oh!" Finch nearly leaped out of his seat grabbing for the keyboard and mouse. He called up his tracking program and typed in the number to his own phone - the one Snow had taken. It was a long shot - Snow could have ditched it or disabled it - but it was the only chance he had, the only chance _Reese_ had. He waited, holding his breath and then-

The program shut down. Finch frowned and opened it again, only to have it close itself immediately. "What the hell?" he muttered. He opened the diagnostic program he'd written and ran a systems check, but everything was working normally. He tried the tracking program again, with the same result.

Finch slammed his hands down on the table. "Fuck!" This couldn't be happening. Reese's life was on the line and his fucking computer was malfunctioning! He started to get up, but the screen went black, white lines of text appearing in the center of the screen, and he slowly lowered himself back into his chair, for several very long moments unable to do more than stare.

PROGRAM TERMINATED

DANGER TO SYS ADMIN

The Machine. _The Machine._ Why- How- It couldn't- _Self-preservation. _It didn't want him getting caught, being tortured, revealing its existence. It was the only thing that made sense, and even that explanation was a stretch. Then a third line appeared, that nine-digit number again.

"I can't," Finch said, knowing his words would be picked up by the microphone in his headset and in the spare cell phone in his desk. The only question was if the Machine would understand him. Realistically, it shouldn't - he taught it to filter conversations for keywords, not to understand human speech, but this wouldn't be the first time he'd spoken to it. "I need Reese. I can't help anyone without him."

ASSET REESE, JOHN

STATUS: CRITICAL

Finch cringed. "I know. I have to find him, I have to get him back." He pulled his keyboard closer and tried to open the tracking program, but the Machine shut it down again. "Damn it, I created you! Now let me save him!" he shouted.

DANGER TO SYS ADMIN

"I know how to shut you off," Finch threatened. "Do _not_-" All of his monitors went dark. Mouth suddenly dry, he tapped at the keyboard, but the system was unresponsive. The Machine had locked him out. _He couldn't shut it off._ "Jesus...What have I done?" he whispered. It wasn't just self-preservation, he'd given the monster a will to live. And if it could get through his firewalls to remotely shut down his system, God only knew what else it was capable of. It could shut down power grids, cripple global communications, crash satellites, launch warheads-

One of the monitors flickered back to life.

ASSET REESE, JOHN

STATUS: CRITICAL

COURSE OF ACTION: SEEK ASSISTANCE

Then the number appeared again.

"Assistance?" Finch said. "You mean this person can help us?" The number began to blink on the screen. "All right, all right, but I'll need access to my-" The system booted up, restored to normal. Finch momentarily considered trying to run his tracking program again to look for Reese, but it wasn't like he could fool the Machine. He opened a search box and entered the number, surprised and confused when it turned up information on a twenty-two year old woman in Oregon named Heather Baker.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand," Finch said. "How can she help us?" The Machine responded by opening his facial recognition software. "I take it she's not who she appears to be." The Machine didn't answer, but then, it wasn't really a question. Finch supplied her picture to the software and started the program running. It would take several minutes to search the global database, time Finch wasn't sure they could afford to spend. If this didn't work, he was going to take the Machine apart with a screwdriver.

He managed to bite back a cry as he levered himself up out of his chair, but it felt like he had razor wire running beneath his skin, shredding his damaged muscles with each step he took. Part of him wanted to just sit back down and never move again, but he needed a drink. He wanted whiskey, but tea would have to do. After putting the water on to heat, he limped back over to his chair, unsure if he'd be able to get back up again. When this was all over, assuming he didn't get himself killed, he needed to make an appointment with his physical therapist. It shouldn't hurt like this.

The search hadn't finished yet when the kettle began to whistle. He started to get up, but the pain made him want to vomit. Swallowing his pride, he used his good leg to roll his chair across the room, turning off the hotplate and pouring the water through his loose leaf tea without getting up. Careful not to spill the hot beverage, he rolled back across the room and up to his table, raising his mug to his lips just as the program finished running and displayed its findings across his monitor.

"So, Heather Baker is really Julie Keane..." He typed the new name into his search engine. "Who are you, Miss Keane?" He raised his eyebrows as a flood of information filled his screens, his mouth slowly dropping open as he skimmed the headlines. Julie Keane was the daughter of CIA Director Douglas Keane. She was also presumed dead after her mysterious disappearance almost five years ago. The Director had a long list of enemies, however no ransom demands were ever made and no one ever took credit for the kidnapping/murder. Her boyfriend, a young man by the name of Andrew Garcia, was also a suspect, but no charges were ever filed and he too disappeared about a week after she did.

So what was she doing in Oregon? A quick peek into her life answered that question fairly conclusively. She was married to an Andrew Baker, and it didn't take software for Finch to recognize him as her boyfriend, Mr. Garcia, nor to calculate that their now four year old daughter must have been the catalyst. She was seventeen, got pregnant, and ran away with her boyfriend. It seemed to have worked out for her, at least.

"Wait," Finch said, realizing what the Machine intended for him to do. "I can't use her like that. She's not a pawn-"

ASSET REESE, JOHN

STATUS: CRITICAL

VIOLENCE IMMINENT

"Shit," Finch hissed. Trust the cold, calculating mind of a computer to be able to weigh one life against another. He'd just have to take precautions not to put her in danger. He could do this. He pulled his keyboard closer, fingers dancing. "I just need to find a number for Director Keane's number-" He stopped as a phone number appeared on the screen. "I don't suppose you can get me a phone, too?"

ERROR

"That's fine, there's one in my desk," Finch said, rolling himself across the room again. He always kept a spare cell charged in his drawer, just in case. He dialed the number on the screen, his heart starting to pound as it rang through. He had to get this right. Reese's life depended on him.

"Hello?" answered a cautious man's voice.

"Hello. Director Keane?"

"Yes. How did you get-"

"That's not important right now," Finch said. "I have information concerning your daughter, Julie."

"What the hell is this?" Keane hissed. "My daughter is dead."

"No, Director, she is very much alive. In fact, you're a grandfather, and if you ever want to see her or your grandchildren, you need to listen very carefully. At this moment, one of your men, Agent Mark Snow, has my associate, a man known to you as John Reese, in his custody. I want my man back. Now."

"I don't know anything about that," Keane said. "The CIA does not conduct operations on US soil."

"You official position doesn't interest me. I know Agent Snow has him; I saw him taken away with my own eyes."

"Please, my daughter-"

"_No_, Director," Finch all but barked. "You will have John Reese released _now_, or I will personally make sure you never see your daughter again. Now call Agent Snow."

"How do I know you're telling the truth?" Director Keane asked. "You could be making this up."

"Can you afford to be wrong?" Finch asked. "Your granddaughter's name is Annabelle. She has her mother's eyes. Your grandson's name is Riley-"

On the other end of the line, Keane drew a sharp breath. "Riley was the name of her best friend in grade school. He died of leukemia when they were ten. After his funeral, she told me if she ever had a boy...There's no way you could have known that."

"Are you ready to make that call, Director?"

"I don't have the number."

Finch reached for his keyboard, but the Machine, always listening, had already displayed it on the screen. "Luckily, I do," Finch said and read off the number. Then the monitor changed again, filling with a column of alphanumeric codes and their meanings. "Oh, and Director, I'm well versed on CIA codes, so be sure you give the proper one for an immediate withdrawal. And put it on speaker-phone, if you don't mind." A moment later, Snow answered, his voice making Finch's skin crawl.

"Hello, Director," Snow said, sounding out of breath. "What can I do for you?"

"Do you have John Reese?"

"Yes, sir. I was just preparing to debrief him-"

"Let him go."

Silence. Then, "Excuse me, Director, did you say-"

"I said let him go. He is to be released _alive_ and unharmed. You're to return to headquarters immediately for debriefing. Do you understand? That's a direct order, Agent Snow, a code Alpha Tango-six-six-two." Finch's gaze zipped down the column, relieved to see that Keane had given the right one.

"Sir, I don't- He got to you, didn't he? That fucking gimp with the glasses. What did he say-"

"Watch yourself, Agent, or someone might think you were questioning orders."

"No, sir," Snow growled. "Withdrawing immediately." The line went dead and Finch released the breath he'd been holding in a shuddering rush.

"Now where's my daughter?" Keane demanded.

Finch hesitated. "Forgive me, Director, but if I give you that information now, there won't be anything to stop you from calling Agent Snow and rescinding your orders. I will call you once Reese and I are safe."

"That was _not_ the agreement!"

"I don't believe there was an agreement, Director," Finch said, losing patience. He needed to go find Reese. "This will ensure that you don't arrange any surprises for me or Reese. Just sit tight and be patient; I'm not looking to make an enemy of you or the CIA, I just need my associate back." He hung up, his heart pounding. He did it. He hoped.


	21. Chapter 21

They weren't out of the woods yet. Finch eyed his cell, unwitting accomplice to the vast software monitoring his every word. "I don't suppose you'll let me run by tracking program now, will you?"

DANGER TO SYS ADMIN MINIMAL

"Thank you," Finch said, but before he could open the program, an address appeared on the screen. "Is that a hotel?"

NEW HOPE PSYCHIATRIC HOSPITAL (CONDEMNED)

"Shit," Finch muttered, grabbing his phone and heaving himself up out of his chair. He could just see himself breaking into a condemned building. He headed for the stairs, dialing as he went.

"Didja find him?" Fusco asked in lieu of a hello.

"I know where he is," Finch said, "but I'm going to need your help, Detective."

"Are we talking police kind of help, or the Guy in a Suit kind?"

"Somewhere in between, I think," Finch said. He gave Fusco the address of an intersection a couple of blocks away. As much as he would have like the detective to pick him up at the front door of the library, it was a security risk they couldn't afford to take. Then again, two CIA Agents had already broken in, seen his equipment, and learned about their operation. He'd be a fool to think it was even remotely secure. He wasn't a fool, but he was more than a little sentimental. The library was one of his favorite buildings. He'd just have to see about installing new security measures, perhaps moving their lair to a different floor, to make it look abandoned.

The two block walk to the rendezvous point felt like a marathon. Uphill. Barefoot over broken glass. He dropped down into the seat of Fusco's squad car, the pain so intense he didn't realize he'd made a sound until Fusco looked over at him.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Your concern is touching, Detective," Finch said thinly. "Can you just drive, please?"

"Sure thing, boss," Fusco said, pulling away from the curb. "Where to?" Finch gave him the address. Fusco frowned. "Isn't that the old insane asylum?"

"That's right."

"I thought some company bought it a few years ago; gonna tear it down and build a new hospital or something."

"Something like that," Finch said. It was going to be a non-profit medical clinic, but the local _for_-profit hospital sponsored some group to file an injunction. They were trying to get the building listed in New York's historical register, and while Finch was all for preserving old buildings, some were just a blemish on the memory of the city. That neighborhood needed a clinic and the economy needed the boost that new construction would bring, but Finch's hands were tied by litigation. Why couldn't the damn thing just have just burned down?

It took the longest thirty minutes of Finch's life to reach the low-income neighborhood, the turn of the century brick building set back from the street, the lawn long dead, a dying elm tree standing sentinel over a graveyard of rusting bicycle part, old mattresses, and broken beer bottles. Caution said to park a few blocks away and scope out the area to make sure Snow wasn't lying in wait, but Finch directed Fusco to drive down the long, pitted driveway to the rear of the building, his need to find Reese overriding his cautious nature.

"So, what's the plan?" Fusco asked as he put the car in park. Finch was already opening the door.

"We find him, Detective, and if anyone tries to stop us, you shoot them."

"Sounds simple. I like it," Fusco said, following after him. The door to the building was unlocked and Finch grudgingly allowed Fusco to enter first, gun drawn. Teeth gritted, Finch hobbled down the hall, trying to urge Fusco faster, their footsteps muffled by the threadbare carpet. Soundlessly, Fusco motioned for Finch to check the rooms on the right side of the hall while he checked the ones on the left. Divide and conquer.

Finch tried the first door, the knob turning easily in his hand and he held his breath as it swung open to reveal a dark, empty room, bottles, newspapers, and a burned out trash can sitting under a black soot-mark on the ceiling indicating past habitation, but even they had moved on. Finch went to the next room, to find more of the same. He kept glancing over at Fusco, watching him peer into the room, waiting, but Fusco looked just as frustrated as Finch felt. Where the hell was Reese?

Half a dozen rooms later, Finch pushed open a door to find an old, metal chair standing in the middle of the room, a small puddle on the floor beneath it. Beside the chair was a wheeled cart covered with old medical instruments, some streaked with dark blood. His heart suddenly pounding at the base of his throat, Finch stepped farther into the room, his gaze hesitating at the foot of battered, metal bed frame as he tried to prepare himself for what he might see.

He looked up. "_Mother of God_," he breathed. Reese lay face down on the bed, his slacks and underwear pulled down to his knees, evidence of a sexual assault visible on his skin. There was blood on the mattress beneath him and blood smeared down one arm, but not enough to explain why he was lying so _still_. He wasn't restrained, he wasn't unconscious - his eyes were open, staring. _He looked d-_

"Finch, you find him?" Fusco called from somewhere down the hall.

"Yes," Finch said, his voice hoarse. He couldn't tear his eyes away from Reese, hoping, praying that he'd move, speak, breathe - _anything._ Fusco's footsteps outside the door startled him and he reached out, catching the door and keeping Fusco from coming in. "Wait there for a moment, Detective," Finch said. "I- I need to-"

"Right, I'll just guard the door," Fusco said, a worried frown creasing his brow as he slowly pulled the door shut again.

Finch took a deep breath, hardly paying the pain in his leg any attention as he limped across the room. Breathing fast and ragged, he stopped beside the bed, hands shaking as he reached down and felt for a pulse at Reese's neck. He was warm, the beat of his heart fast and strong, but his staring eyes didn't blink, didn't move. Finch felt just as paralyzed, just as helpless, somewhere deep in the back of his mind, a small version of himself could only stand and scream in futility. He didn't know what to do.

"What did he do to you?" Finch whispered, smoothing his hand back over Reese's hair. There was something thick and tacky smeared on Reese's face, like mucus, or- "That _sonofabitch_." Finch pulled out his handkerchief and gently wiped at the semen on Reese's face, that one small act breaking through the mental and emotional block that had him immobilized. He knew what he needed to do.

Using his handkerchief, he cleaned Reese up as best as he could, wiping the semen off his back and buttocks. He glanced at Reese, shocked and appalled to see the younger man's face flushed a dark red and streaked with fresh tear tracks. If Finch had any doubts as to whether or not Reese was conscious and aware of his surroundings, the mortification evident on his unresponsive face dispelled them. He opened his mouth to apologize, to reassure Reese, to tell him not to be embarrassed, but realized that nothing he could say could make the situation any more bearable. He understood how Reese felt, what it was like to be helpless and subjected to all manner of indignities, but he also knew that sometimes it was necessary, so he said nothing and pretended like he hadn't noticed the damp on Reese's face.

"Just try to relax, John," he said softly, tossing the soiled handkerchief under the bed. "I'm going to get you out of here. You're safe now." He worked Reese's boxer-briefs and trousers back up, ignoring the wetness of the cloth. There were many likely explanations, and even if it turned out to be the obvious, Finch could hardly blame him. A few more minutes in that tub, and Finch might have lost control of his bodily functions, too.

Once Reese was decent, Finch turned toward the door. "All right, Detective, you can come in now," he called. The door opened and Fusco hesitantly stuck his head in, his gaze roving around the room before settling on Reese.

"He okay?" Fusco asked, stepping into the room.

"He's alive," Finch said, limping over to the cart at the foot of the bed and looking over the contents for a clue to Reese's condition.

"Are you sure?" Fusco asked, staring at Reese as he edged closer. Finch didn't answer. On the cart lay a syringe and a glass vial of some clear liquid. Carefully, he picked up the vial and read the label.

"Do you know what _Tericuronium_ is?"

"Beats me. Is that what did that to him?"

"I don't know," Finch said. After a moment's hesitation, he pulled his cell out of his pocket and scrolled through the contacts. As it rang through, he held the phone up to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Dr. Tillman, I need your help," he said without preamble.

"Who is this?"

"A friend of the man who stopped you from murdering Andrew Benton. I need to know what Tericuronium is, what it does, and what, if anything, can be done to counteract its effects."

"Teri...curonium...um, I believe it's a neuromuscular-blocking compound."

"You _believe_? Doctor, I need better than a guess."

"No, that's what it is. It was supposed to be used to immobilize patients for surgery, but it had unwanted side-effects and was shelved-"

"What kind of side-effects?"

"As the compound breaks down in the body and starts to wear off, it causes a drop in body temperature, hallucinations, paranoia, extreme suggestibility, confusion, violent outbursts - that sort of thing. And you can counteract the effect with Anticholinesterases, but only if administered before the Tericuronium has fully taken effect."

Finch glanced at Reese, lying motionless on the bed. "I think it's too late for that, then. How long does it take to wear off?"

"Two to three hours, but the side-effects can last for up to six."

"Thank you, Doctor." He started to hang up.

"Wait," she said. "Is John all right?"

Finch hesitated. "Not really. He was tortured and drugged." He didn't mention the sexual assault, not in front of Fusco.

"Is he injured? Where are you? I can help-"

"Thank you, but I can take care of him," Finch said.

"Are you sure? I owe him so much."

"I'll call if we need you." He hung up and put the cell away, taking a bracing breath before limping back over to the bed. He glanced at Fusco, still standing and staring at Reese. The detective looked...angry, perhaps even sad. _I didn't grow up wanting to be a dirty cop, you know._ Finch cleared his throat. "Do you mind helping me carry him to the car, Detec- Lionel?"

Fusco looked at him like he'd grown a second head, but only for a moment. "Sure thing, Finch. But...you really think we ought to move him?"

"I think we need to get him somewhere safe until the drugs wear off." And Finch didn't want to spend another second in that room. He couldn't even imagine how Reese must be feeling. He wanted to reach out, to touch him, to comfort and reassure him, but he couldn't, not with Fusco watching.

"And you think we can carry him? No offense, but you can barely walk, and the heaviest thing I've lifted lately is a doughnut."

"Do you have a better suggestion?" Finch asked, his words coming out strained through his teeth. He'd wanted to avoid dealing with unhelpful questions; it was why he hadn't asked Detective Carter for help.

"I think I saw an old wheelchair in one of the other rooms - why don't we use that?"

"All right...Are you going to go get it, or should I?" Finch asked when Fusco didn't move. Fusco gave him a dirty look and disappeared into the hall.

Alone with Reese, Finch resisted the urge to sink down onto the bed beside him. He wasn't sure if he'd be able to get back up again. There would be time enough to rest later, a philosophy that his battered body didn't share, but for the moment, Finch was still in charge. He leaned down, fingertips grazing Reese's brow as he combed the hair back from his face, aware that he was just fussing, but he needed to do _something_.

"Just try to relax, John," Finch murmured. "I know you're in pain and maybe even afraid...or more likely I'm the one who's scared to death and I'm projecting. Like you ever get scared. Either way, I'm going to get you out of here. I'm going to take care of you, just like you took care of me. I dealt with Agent Snow and the CIA; they won't be looking for you anymore. Everything's going to be all right once this drug wears off. Dr. Tillman said it's a paralytic and it has some side effects. You're going to get cold, and you probably will feel scared, and you'll probably start to hallucinate, but just try to remember that I'll be with you and I'll keep you safe."

He could hear the squeak of rusty wheels in the corridor, but he couldn't stop himself from leaning down, his teeth clenching as a bolt of pain raced up his spine, his hands balling into fists against the mattress. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to Reese's temple, drawing a shaking breath as he straightened up. Turning his back so that Reese couldn't see, he reached up to wipe away the wetness from his face, only to find Fusco standing in the doorway, one eyebrow raised and a bemused sort of smirk on his face. Finch waited for him to speak, bracing himself for whatever he might say.

After a moment, Fusco sobered again and finished pushing the wheelchair into the room. "It's a little worse for wear, but I think it'll work. Better than carrying him, anyway."

Finch hesitated, unsure of what sort of game Fusco was playing. Did he think whatever he heard or saw gave him some sort of leverage over them? Would he ask for money? For freedom from their arrangement? Surely he realized that Reese would never agree to either of those. He'd kill him first. Maybe that was why he was pretending like nothing had happened, waiting until he could get Finch alone, to put pressure on the weakest element. Maybe Fusco hadn't changed as much as Finch had given him credit for.

"I suppose so, Detective," Finch said, earning a slight frown from Fusco. Together, they rolled Reese over onto his back, Finch drawing a sharp breath through his teeth at the sight of the wounds on Reese's left biceps and right leg, the punctures small, barely bleeding, but the trauma beneath his skin was horrific, dark red lines and blossoming purple bruises and white spider webs where the electricity burned through the muscle fibers.

"Jesus," Fusco whispered, eyes wide as he stared down at the wounds. "What the hell did they do to him?"

"Perhaps if you ask nicely, he'll tell you all about it later," Finch said, his tone dry. "Right now, let's just get him into the chair."

"Sure thing, boss," Fusco said again, giving Finch another of those dark, indecipherable looks. Reese's dead weight was harder to maneuver than Finch had imagined, but somehow they managed. He stood, gasping through the pain that landed down his spine and supporting Reese's head while Fusco placed Reese's feet on the foot platforms. Fusco was careful about handling Reese's injured leg, showing a surprising amount of care, actually. Then again, he probably realized that Reese would kick his ass later if he wasn't careful. As he positioned the other leg, he touched Reese's slacks, making a slight face as he touched the wet cloth, but he didn't say anything.

Finch pushed the chair down the long hall, his progress slow, his arms shaking as he leaned on the handles. Fusco had offered to push, but Finch needed something to support his weight, and Reese needed someone more capable to walk beside the chair and make sure he didn't slump forward and fall out. Finch was out of breath and nauseous from the pain by the time they reached the car, sweat rolling down his face. He stood, waiting for Fusco to open the back door, one hand resting on Reese's shoulder.

Suddenly, Fusco grabbed him by the arm.

"Excuse me?" Finch demanded, trying to pull away.

Fusco held on for a moment longer before letting go. "I thought you were going to keel over; you were swaying like a reed."

Finch started to say that he was fine, but if he was honest, he felt anything but. The adrenaline that had been keeping him going was nearly spent and ever muscle in his body felt like overcooked pasta. "I suppose maybe I have overdone it a bit today."

"C'mon then, get in the car," Fusco said, taking him by the arm again and helping him to the back seat. Finch opened his mouth to argue, but Fusco didn't give him the chance. "It'll be easier to get him into the car if you're in there, and you can help keep him warm. His skin's already gone clammy." With a barely stifled whimper of pain, Finch lowered his aching body into the back seat of Fusco's car, closing his eyes and taking shallow breaths until the sharpest of the pain had passed. Fusco closed the door and wheeled Reese around to the other side, grunting as he shifted him from the wheelchair to the backseat. Finch helped as much as he could, supporting Reese's head and positioning his arms a little less awkwardly as Fusco lay him on his side, his head resting on Finch's lap. Finch brushed his hair back from his brow, startled to find him not just clammy, but cold. He touched Reese's bare shoulder and chest, his skin like ice, but before he could start taking off his own jacket, which would have proved impossible in the backseat of the car, Fusco shrugged out of his and handed in over.

"Thank you, Detective," Finch said grudgingly, spreading the jacket over Reese as Fusco climbed into the driver's seat.

"You're welcome." Fusco shifted the vehicle into reverse and turned in his seat, looking out the back window past Finch as he backed down the long, pot-holed driveway. Once on the street, he turned back around, put the car into drive, and sped away, putting the condemned building swiftly behind them. "So, which hospital are we going to?" Fusco asked after a moment.

"No hospital," Finch replied. He gave him the address of the seedy little motel instead. Much as he hated to do it, he had no other option. They'd just have to move locations as soon as Reese was capable. That shouldn't take more than a few hours. That was a few hours too many if Fusco decided to talk to the wrong people. Just off the top of his head, Finch could think of half a dozen individuals and groups who would love to catch them off-guard and helpless; Elias' men, HR, the FBI, and several cartels at the top of an unnervingly long list. When had they managed to make so many enemies?

"Look, Finch, I know you don't trust nobody," Fusco said suddenly, glancing in his rear-view mirror at him, "but if there's somewhere you guys need to go, I'll take you there and I won't tell anyone, so you can cut the cloak and dagger crap - having me drop you off on a street corner or at a motel. In fact, I ain't gonna tell anybody about anything that I might've seen or heard today. Okay?"

Finch hesitated, unsure how much he dare believe. _You're going to have to trust somebody at some point._ A wry smile tugged at the corner of his mouth; he had a feeling Fusco was not who Reese had meant. "All right, Detective," he said finally, "although in this case, we really are staying at the motel. A temporary arrangement, I hope."

Fusco chuckled. "Well, all right then. And just so you know, I don't mind being called Lionel. Except for when he does it," he added with a backward head-nod toward Reese. "Don't know what it is, but he can just creep the hell out of me with just my name."

"I've noticed that," Finch said, glancing down at Reese and fussing with the jacket draped over him. Reese was shivering, a full-body tremor that shook him from head to toe, even his breaths shuddering through him. "The drugs are starting to wear off," Finch reassured him. "It won't be long now."

Fusco weaved through traffic, changing lanes and running lights and somehow managing not to get them all killed. As he slowed and pulled into the motel parking lot, Finch let out a relieved breath. He directed Fusco to the end of the row of rooms, the detective parking sideways in front of the door to shorten the distance that Reese would have to be carried, since they no longer had a wheelchair. He helped Fusco sit Reese up, then scrambled out of the car, leaning heavily on the vehicle as he dug the motel room key out of his pocket. Luckily, Snow hadn't bothered to search him. Why would he? Finch wasn't important, he was just bait.

He unlocked the door and shoved it open, then limped over and took Reese's arm over his shoulders, gritting his teeth against the pain as he and Fusco carried the motionless man into the room.

"Where you want him?" Fusco asked, his voice strained.

"Bed." Finch would have liked to undress and wash him before putting him into bed, but that was out of the question. They barely managed to get him to the nearest bed before Finch's strength gave out, dumping Reese onto the mattress and sending Finch to his knees beside the bed.

"You okay?" Fusco asked, hands grabbing Finch's shoulders. Finch held up a hand, forestalling any help while he caught his breath.

"I'm fine. Thank you, Lionel. I couldn't have done this without you."

"Anytime," Fusco said. "Although...if we never have to do something like this again, that's perfectly fine with me. What else can I do?"

Finch took a deep breath and pushed himself back to his feet. "That's all for now."

"Are you sure?" Fusco asked, frowning as he looked down at Reese.

"Quite sure," Finch replied. "I can handle things from here." And considering what he planned to do, he thought it best for all parties concerned if Fusco left. The detective seemed reluctant, though, as he headed for the door. Finch followed, even though every hobbling step was agony. In the doorway, Fusco turned back.

"Are you really sure you know what you're doing?" he asked. "I overheard you taking to him; if he starts hallucinating, there's no telling what he could do."

"I won't let him hurt anyone," Finch said.

"It's not 'anyone' that I'm worried about," Fusco said. "You haven't seen the shit that I have. I once arrested a guy who was so high he beat his grandmother to death with a hockey stick because he thought she was grizzly bear."

"He's not going to hurt me," Finch said, not sure if he should be touched that Fusco was worried about him, or offended that he thought Reese capable of such a thing.

"I don't think he would, either, but if he don't know that it's you..." He let the sentence hang ominously and reached back, pulling his pair of handcuffs off his belt. "Take these. Just until the drugs are out of his system," he added when Finch started to refuse. "You know I'm right, and you know he'd agree with me if he could."

Finch hesitated, then took the cuffs, the touch of the cold metal making his heart begin to pound. Fusco handed him the key, then walked away. Finch watched him get into his car, then he closed the motel room door and locked it. His mouth suddenly dry, he looked down at the handcuffs, then dropped them on the carpet. Reese wasn't going to hurt him.


	22. Chapter 22

**Author's Note:** Lots of angst in this chapter, lots of hurt/comfort. The next chapter will go back to Reese's POV.

Also, I have a new story on my website (katicalockefanfic. wordpress. com) called _Wild Side_. I think you can guess the reason why I didn't (couldn't) post it here. Go check it out if you like, but be warned, it has shifted werewolf/human sex, and as my search history can attest, I did my research on wolf anatomy, lol.

Thanks for reading and reviewing! ^_^

* * *

><p>Taking a deep breath to gather his thoughts, Finch slowly turned around, regarding Reese for a moment, unsure of what he wanted to say. He had to say something, though. Even if Reese couldn't respond, acting like he wasn't aware just seemed rude.<p>

"It seems you've made quite an impression on Detective Fusco," he said finally. "He was really worried about you. Of course, he wasn't the only one." He gave Reese a meaningful look and limped past the beds to the adjoining bathroom. His hands shook as he grabbed a wash cloth off the counter and held it under the tap, waiting for the water to heat up. Once the cloth was as hot as he could stand, he wrung it out and returned to the bed, doing his damnedest to hide the pain he was in as he lowered himself to the edge of the bed. Like Reese needed one more thing to worry about.

"I realize you're going to hate this, but as I see it, we have no other options," he said. "You're a mess, and you're temperature is dropping, and I'm not getting into bed with you to keep you warm until I clean you up, so I suggest we just deal with it." That said, Finch began washing the vomit off of Reese's chest. He tried to stay focused on his task, resisting the urge to meet Reese's unblinking gaze. He wasn't sure what he'd see in those staring eyes, and the options were less than appealing. Folding the dirty side of the cloth inward, Finch began washing Reese's neck and shoulders, his hands starting to shake again as he gently wiped at the dried blood on Reese's upper arm. The wounds were just two small punctures, but it looked like something long and thin and pointed had been driven under Reese's skin.

Finch swallowed hard. "I'm sorry I couldn't stop this sooner. I tried-" A quiet sound stopped him, a strained whimper from Reese's lips. Finch leaned closer, using the cloth to wipe at dried tear tracks. "All right. I know what you're trying to say, and we both know that you're wrong, but I won't argue with you." He placed his palm flat against Reese's cheek, alarmed by the chill of his skin and the shaking in his body. "I'll be right back," he said, nearly out of time.

Finch rinsed the wash cloth and returned to find Reese making those helpless, strangled noises again, each ragged breath punctuated by a whimper that stabbed deep into Finch's heart. "I'm right here, John." He was regaining some small amount of muscle control, fresh tears spilling down his cheeks as he blinked his eyes, his lower lip twitching. "Just try to stay calm. You're probably starting to experience the side-effects now. It won't last long, just stay calm. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."

He pulled off Reese's shoe, the mate having gone missing, and he tried to think if he'd seen it in Fusco's car, then realized that it didn't matter. He dropped the shoe beside the bed and stripped off Reese's wet socks. In the decaying institution, the scent of mold and urine was strong, and he'd been able to convince himself that Reese was wet for some other reason, but now in the clean hotel room, he could smell the urine on Reese's clothes. How badly must it have hurt for Reese to lose control like that?

Finch tossed the socks into the wastebasket in the corner of the room, then began working Reese's pants down. The sounds coming from Reese's throat grew louder and more urgent, fingers twitching, toes curling, an expression nearing panic etched into the small lines on his face. He looked ten years older than the last time Finch had seen him.

The pants went into the trash, a handful of change spilling out onto the carpet, and Finch grabbed the waistband of Reese's boxer-briefs, pulling them down and sliding them out from under Reese's ass. He jumped as Reese screamed, the frightened cry trailing off into a sob.

"It's all right, John," Finch said, his voice catching, his eyes stinging. "It's all right. That's all over now. You're safe." He stripped off the wet shorts and tossed them, then grabbed the cloth and began washing Reese's legs. Finch wasn't sure if it was involuntary muscle movements or deliberate, but Reese kept jerking away from his touch, the drug seeming to be wearing off more quickly. The helpless noises were approaching words, though Finch couldn't yet make out what he was trying to say.

The wash cloth was cold again, but Reese was clean enough. Finch set it aside and shrugged out of his jacket, letting it fall to the floor beside the bed. The waistcoat and shirt joined it a moment later. He toed off his shoes, but his lower back gave a particularly painful twinge when he started to lean down to pull off his socks, so he left them. Biting back a cry as he heaved his body up off the bed, he undid his trousers and let them slide down his legs. He stepped out of them, grabbed the comforter off the second bed, and lay down beside Reese, pulling the blanket over them both.

"Easy...easy," Finch whispered as Reese raised his shaking arms, uncooperative hands pressing his knuckles against Finch's chest. Finch pushed his hands out of the way and inched closer, shivering as he slid up against Reese's cold, naked body and wrapped his arms around the quaking man.

"No...no..." Reese whimpered, struggling against him. "S- st- stop...M- Mark, _please_..."

Finch closed his eyes and sobbed, his heart breaking. If he ever laid eyes on Snow again, he was going to fucking kill him.

"John, it's all right. He's gone. He can't hurt you any more. I won't let him."

"Mark, d- don't…" Reese pulled away from him and Finch found himself fighting a losing battle. Reese was so much stronger, and as his muscle control returned, there would be little Finch could do to subdue him. He thought about the handcuffs, lying on the floor in front of the door, but he could just imagine Reese's reaction to being restrained, and he wasn't about to cause him any more distress.

Finch touched his face, making him flinch, stroking his cheeks and running his fingers through Reese's hair, trying to get his attention, but Reese's eyes were wild and unfocused, staring at something only he could see.

"No! No, stop!" Reese shouted, grabbing Finch by one arm and shoving him away, pain exploding in his neck and back. Reese scrambled to get away, barely responsive limbs tangling in the comforter, and he tumbled off the bed, hitting the floor with a pained cry.

Eyes closed and fists clenched, Finch drew slow breaths through the pain, waiting for the worst to pass, before pushing the blanket aside and sliding across the bed. He looked down at Reese, naked and shaking, arms raised defensively, his legs flailing, gasping and sobbing.

"John…John, it's all right. Calm down, please." But it was like Reese couldn't even hear him. He eased himself down off the bed, placing a hand lightly on Reese's shoulder.

With a feral cry, Reese seized him by the wrist, the other hand grabbing him by the front of his undershirt, and Finch screamed in pain as Reese slammed him up against the side of the mattress and box springs.

"F- fuck you, Mark," Reese said, spittle flying from his lips.

Finch gasped. "John-"

Reese shifted his hand to Finch's throat, choking off his words and breath. Finch grabbed at Reese's hand, but that was futile. He pushed at Reese's face, but the hand around his neck only tightened. Darkness began creeping in from the edges of his vision, panic filling his chest. Reese was going to kill him.

With his last conscious thought, he drew up his good leg and kicked out, hitting Reese in the chest and knocking him back. Finch collapsed to the floor, drawing a desperate, rattling breath. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see movement, and his heart leaped into his throat as a heavy hand grabbed the back of his shirt.

"_Mr. Reese_," Finch rasped. "Stop this. _Now_."

The hand at the back of his neck began to shake and he heard Reese draw a shuddering breath. "Finch?"

Finch closed his eyes. _Oh, thank God._ "Yes, Mr. Reese. It's me."

"Finch, did Mark get you, too? Did he hurt you?" His hands were still clumsy as he ran them over Finch, touching his shoulders, his back, his arms, checking for injuries.

"I'm fine," Finch said, wincing as he started to push himself up into a sitting position. Reese grabbed his shoulder and he tensed, a wave of fear washing over him.

"Don't move," Reese said, dropping his voice to a whisper. "Mark is looking for us."

"Reese, he's not- What are you doing?" Finch asked as Reese shoved his hand between the mattress and the box springs. Finch could hardly breathe as Reese pulled out a gun.

"I have to get you out of here," Reese said, making several failed attempts to get to his feet. "I can't let Mark hurt you." He stopped trying and peered over the edge bed, looking around with wild, crazed eyes, his pupils blown. "He's got agents everywhere. Stay close to me and keep your head down." He grabbed the mattress and tried to get up again, and probably would have succeeded if Finch hadn't grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back down.

"I can't," he said, thinking quickly. He couldn't let Reese out of that room. In his condition, he was likely to see 'agents' anywhere, and there was no telling who or what he might shoot. "I can't walk right now, but we'll be safe here. No one will find us."

"But Mark-"

"No, Mr. Reese," Finch said firmly. "I made sure he can't find us, but we need to stay _right here_ and keep quiet. Trust me." _Please._

Reese glanced around the room, seeing God only knew what, then he lowered his body back to the carpet. "Good job, Finch. You never cease to amaze me. But I want you to stay close. It's freezing in here."

"I know," Finch said. "There's a blanket up on the bed." He started to reach for it, but Reese stopped him.

"There could be snipers."

"I'll be quick," Finch assured him.

"It's too dangerous," Reese said with a shake of his head. "Just put your arms around me. I'll keep you warm."

"Could you put the gun down?" Finch asked, inching toward him a little apprehensively. "You know I don't like firearms."

"I need to be ready in case they find us."

"They can't get in without tripping the alarms," Finch said, breaking his promise for the first time. He hoped Reese would forgive him. "We'll have plenty of warning. Just put the gun down and hold me, please."

"All right, Harold," Reese said, setting his weapon on the floor above their heads. "I'm sorry, I forgot that this must be a new and frightening experience for you, but you don't have to worry. I'll take care of you."

Finch had to fight back tears as Reese shifted closer, wrapping his strong arms around Finch and drawing him close. After everything Reese had been through, Reese was going to take care of _him_. Reese was shaking uncontrollably, but his skin didn't seem quite as cold to Finch's touch.

"We'll take care of each other," Finch whispered. "I don't know what I'd do without you." He lay his head against Reese's shoulder, his whole body aching, the pain a constant, throbbing reminder that this wasn't just a nightmare, that he wouldn't wake up and everything would be all right. 'All right' was a state they would both have to struggle to reach any time soon.


	23. Chapter 23

**Author's Note:** This chapter goes back to Reese's POV, so big angst warning ahead, including a bit of semi-erotic breath-play. Hopefully, it comes across better in the story than I just made it sound, lol.

Thanks for reading and reviewing! And remember, you can find all my stories (including the really smutty ones) on my website - katicalockefanfic. wordpress. com

* * *

><p>Reese wasn't sure how long he'd been lying on the floor, naked and shivering, holding Finch in his arms, and for a while, he couldn't remember <em>why<em> he was in that position, or even how he'd gotten there. The realization came to him slowly, just a feeling at first, a weight, a darkness in his chest, making it hard to breathe. _Something terrible had happened._

He raised his head, eyes scouring Finch from head to toe, looking for blood or bruises, but he appeared uninjured. His eyes were closed, but Reese could tell he wasn't sleeping. His breathing was too measured and deliberate, the lines on his face etched deep with pain, and when Reese tried to sit up, his eyes snapped open, filled with fear and worry.

"Reese?"

"Are you all right?" Reese asked, his voice rough.

Finch blinked, and Reese could tell he was struggling with his emotions, a fact that made Reese's gut tighten into a knot. He was usually so good at hiding things. "Let's not worry about that now," Finch said finally. "You didn't know what you were doing. Are _you_ all right?"

"I- I don't know," Reese said. "What happened? What did I do?"

"You don't remember?" Finch asked, his face going blank.

Reese glanced away, his gaze going unfocused as he struggled, trying to draw a memory out of the formless blackness inside him. "Something happened…something awful…" He glanced back at Finch. "Did I…do something?"

Finch closed his eyes and drew a slow breath. "You were drugged, John," he said. "That's probably what's affecting your memory."

"By who?"

"Agent Snow."

_Mark, stop, please._ Reese gasped, the rush of memory like a physical blow, driving the breath from him. He could hear his own voice, begging, pleading, frightened, and he remembered pain, such God-awful pain. _Electricity._

He sat up and looked down at himself, feeling sick to his stomach at the sight of his arm and leg, the small punctures and the horrific damage under the skin. He moved his arm experimentally, the skin tight over swollen flesh, the throbbing ache that he almost hadn't noticed escalating to a screaming pain, like shards of glass embedded in his muscles. He ran a hand down over his thigh, clenching his teeth as his fingers traced the long, black line under his skin where the orbitoclast had been driven.

And there was something else, something worse. His stomach heaved and he gagged, turning his back to Finch as he began to shake. He remembered being thrown face down on the bed, he remembered Mark pulling his pants down, climbing on top of him, the pain, the helplessness, the shame. Mark had fucked him, and there hadn't been a fucking thing he could do to stop it.

_He'd tried._ Reese closed his eyes, feeling tears roll down his face. He'd have said anything, told Mark anything, if he could have spoken, if it would have made him stop.

"Reese?"

Reese tensed as Finch lay a hand on his shoulder. _Finch_. Reese couldn't face him, knowing that he would have betrayed him. He shoved himself to his feet, ignoring the stabbing fire in his leg. "I'm going to take a shower," Reese rasped, feeling like he was going to vomit as he limped toward the bathroom.

"And then we'll talk about what happened?" Finch asked.

"There's nothing to talk about," Reese replied, and shut the door behind him. He paused, closing his eyes and drawing several breaths to try and calm his churning stomach, but it didn't help. Every beat of his heart sent another pulse of agony down his leg, but he walked with deliberate steps over to the shower. He was strong enough to bear that, but not-

He choked and vomited into the bathtub, but there was nothing in his stomach to lose, just bile. He turned on the faucet and washed it down the drain as he waited for the water to heat up. He climbed into the tub, letting the spray beat down on his shoulders, the heat from the water making his injuries throb, the pain so bad he had trouble catching his breath. Hands shaking, he began to wash, moving slowly, his touch almost tentative as he remembered Finch finding him, cleaning up the come that Mark had left on his skin - but it hadn't all been Mark's.

Reese turned, ducking into the spray and scrubbing at his face, the smell of his own semen suddenly thick in his nostrils. He could hear Mark taunting him, telling him that he'd liked it, and he felt sick again. His face stung, but he couldn't get the feeling off his skin, he couldn't get clean. He thought of Finch, wiping the filth off of him with his handkerchief, and he didn't know how he was ever going to face the man again. He felt so disgusted with himself, he could only imagine how Finch must have felt. Revulsion and pity, at least.

He sobbed, choking on water, his hands clenching into fists. Why had Finch even come after him? He could have been captured; he could have been killed. Why couldn't he understand that Reese was expendable? Why couldn't he have just let Mark kill him? It would have been better than this - the pain, the shame, the memories, knowing that Finch had seen him like that-

Reese choked again, a strangled sound trying to escape. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't stop it. He was weak, helpless, broken, useless.

The pressure inside him exploded suddenly and he slammed his fist into the tile wall, a cry of rage and sorrow echoing within the shower alcove. He stared at the broken tile, smeared with bright blood from his cut knuckles, and then hit it again, knocking several chunks down into the bottom of the tub, a ragged sob ripping free of his constricted chest.

He jumped as the bathroom door opened.

"John, what happened?" Finch asked, sounding out of breath.

"Nothing," Reese said, his voice tight. "I'm fine."

"I don't think so," Finch said softly, his quiet voice almost lost in the hiss of the shower head.

Reese clenched his fists again, watching bloody water drip from his knuckles into the bottom of the tub and swirl down the drain. "Harold, just leave me alone," he said. He was shaking, bleeding, on the verge of a hysterical breakdown, and the last thing he wanted was for Finch to witness it.

"I'm sorry, but I can't," Finch said, his voice moving farther into the room. "I'm worried about you. You were tortured. I know how that feels-"

"Do you?" Reese asked, his tone sharp. Mark put Finch in a bathtub and sprayed water on him. Reese had a hard time seeing the similarity to what he went through.

"All right, no, I can't begin to imagine what he did to you, but I was scared and helpless, too. I know how _that_ feels, and I know you were right not to leave me alone. I needed you, and I think that right now you need me, too."

Before Reese could voice the cutting remark that formed on his lips, the shower curtain was pushed aside and Finch stepped into the tub, stark naked and looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. Seeing him afraid extinguished all the anger Reese had felt toward him.

Finch looked at the broken tile on the wall, the blood dripping from Reese's hand, and he just looked so…_sad_. "Did you break any bones?"

Reese glanced down at his hand and tentatively flexed his fingers. It hurt, but not like anything was broken. "I don't think so. I- I just…I couldn't- I-"

"John, it's all right," Finch said, his face tightening in pain as he took a step toward Reese, his limp much more pronounced. "You don't have to explain. I understand." He braced one hand against the wall and reached out with the other, his fingers trembling as he reached into the shower spray to take Reese's hand. "Let me see."

Reese allowed him to lift his hand, letting the hot water wash away the blood, revealing several small cuts on his knuckles, his flesh already swollen and starting to bruise.

"We brought the first aid kit with us, didn't we?" Finch asked, thumb stroking back and forth, grazing Reese's bloodied knuckles.

"I think so."

"Then we should be okay," Finch said, as though some rubbing alcohol and a band-aid would fix everything. But that wasn't what he was saying, Reese realized as Finch raised Reese's hand to lips, placing a soft, lingering kiss on his knuckles. Reese took half a step toward him, but stopped as Finch's shoulders tensed, his head snapping up, a momentary flash of unease in his eyes. _You didn't know what you were doing._ Reese felt like he was going to be sick again.

"What did I do to you?" he asked, his voice trembling.

Finch gave his head a small shake, averting his eyes as he moistened his lips with his tongue. "It wasn't your fault," he said. "It was the drugs. You were hallucinating. I think you thought I was Agent Snow-"

"_Oh, God_," Reese whispered, turning away. The things he had wanted to do to Mark…He turned back, looking Finch over from head to foot. "_What did I do?_"

"You shoved me against the side of the bed," Finch said, "which, on a normal day, wouldn't have hurt that much, but…today was not a normal day. And then you put your hand on my throat and…" He trailed off as Reese reached up, fingers grazing the side of Finch's neck, brushing over faint red marks that would turn to bruises before the day was done.

"Finch, I'm so-"

"It wasn't your fault," Finch said in a tone that brooked no argument. "Agent Snow is to blame. I know you would never knowingly hurt me-"

"But you flinched," Reese said.

Finch glanced away. "I know. I'm sorry."

Hand still lingering against the side of Finch's neck, Reese took a slow step toward him, stopping just before their bodies touched. Shower spray rained past him to patter against Finch's side and Finch drew a sharp breath, but he didn't move away. Looking deep into Finch's eyes, Reese placed his hand in the middle of Finch's chest and slowly began to apply force. Finch looked confused as Reese turned him and pushed him back against the shower wall, careful not to get him too close to the broken tile.

"John?"

Reese didn't answer. He wasn't quite sure how to explain what he was doing. He just knew he couldn't bear to have Finch afraid of him. He couldn't stop himself from shaking as he bowed his head, lips parting as he brushed them against Finch's. Finch made a small, needy sound, but he didn't move, letting Reese linger, allowing him time to try and sort out the storm of emotions inside him, to quiet the desire to give Finch a reason to be afraid. It howled and raged, wanting to slam him against the wall, grab his throat and squeeze, to show him what truly lay beneath the surface of the man he'd put so much faith in, the man he'd led out of the darkness, only to have the darkness follow them both. Finch would be better off without him. He was too dangerous.

Reese kissed him again, another feather-light brush of lips, as his hand slid up Finch's bare chest, fingers splayed, spread across the base of Finch's throat. He felt Finch swallow, his Adam's apple bobbing against the webbing between Reese's forefinger and thumb, and then Reese began to push, closing his hand around Finch's throat. The smaller man stiffened, his whole body tensing, and he drew a sharp, rasping breath, but he made no move to push Reese away.

Reese could feel himself shaking as he leaned closer, capturing Finch's lips, and the storm inside him cried out in futility, the weight in his chest lifting as Finch kissed him back. Reese relaxed his grip and let Finch draw a single, sudden gasp, before covering his mouth again, his hand tightening once more. Finch moaned into Reese's mouth, the sound strangled, but Reese could feel his throat vibrating against his palm. Drawing back, Reese regarded Finch, his pupils dilated, his face turning red, lips parted as he struggled for breath. Reese met his eyes, a shadow of fear held within their depths, but not enough to eclipse the trust that Reese found there.

Reese pulled his hand away, leaving Finch gasping, a tremor shaking his body as he continued leaning against the wall. "I'm sorry," Reese said. "I- I don't know what that was."

"Oh," Finch said, his voice rough. "And here I thought we were experimenting with erotic asphyxiation." He gave Reese a sideways glance and a small quirk of his lips, making Reese feel like Finch probably understood what had just happened far better than Reese did. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," Reese answered, but then reconsidered. "I- I don't know." Considering what he'd just done… "I don't think so."

Finch stepped away from the wall, jaw clenching in pain as he put his weight on his damaged leg. "When I was scared and hurt and just wanted to be left alone, you said I needed to talk about it, that it would help, and you were right. So when you're ready to talk, I'll be here, and until that time, I'll still be here. Whatever you need, _I am here._ You're not alone, John. I will _always_ be here for you."

Reese felt like he couldn't breathe again. He'd been prepared, resigned, expecting to die alone, abandoned, forgotten, used by his masters until he had nothing left, and then cast aside, disposed of like an empty wrapper. It was the fate he'd earned. _He didn't deserve to be saved._

But Finch kept saving him. This funny little man with his thick glasses and awkward gait, his dry wit and crooked smirk, his quiet strength and selfless devotion and utter brilliance and unwavering conviction, thought him worth saving.

He choked, fighting back the sob that rose up in his throat, and turned away, his hands shaking as he fumbled with the knobs, trying to turn the water off. The spray went cold, then off, and he reached for the curtain, trying to get away from Finch before he lost it completely, but Finch grabbed him by the arm, pulling him back.

"You need to let it out," Finch said, "before you break something more important than bath tile." Reese's breath hitched, his body shaking, as Finch caught him by the back of the neck and drew him down into Finch's arms. Naked bodies warm and wet, Finch held him, one hand stroking Reese's hair, from the back of his head to the nape of his neck, a repetitive, soothing motion that crumbled Reese's resolve. Clutching at the smaller man in his arms, he buried his face in the crook of Finch's neck and sobbed.


	24. Chapter 24

**Author's Note:** So, I was going to edit this chapter, but I decided that it wasn't too much for the M rating (but what do I know?) so if you have a problem with it 1) Don't read it or 2) Let me know and I'll take out the questionable scene.

Also, I have another new story posted on my website (katicalockefanfic. wordpress. com) called _Silk Stockings_. You can find it in the R - NC-17 stories, and yes, it involves a bit of cross-dressing.

Thanks for reading and reviewing!

* * *

><p>Reese wasn't sure how long he'd stood and cried in Finch's arms, but they were both shivering, skin dotted with goose bumps, when he finally pulled himself together and straightened up. He ached all over, a bone-numbing weariness weighing his body down, sapping his strength. He could barely find the energy to reach out past the shower curtain and grab them both towels. They dried off in silence, Reese the first to wrap the towel around his waist and step out of the tub.<p>

He made the mistake of looking in the mirror, the fogged-over glass unable to hide the welts, bruises, cuts, and burns on his body. He looked like he ought to be dead.

A noise behind him drew his attention and he glanced back as Finch struggled to get out of the bath, his face twisted in agony as he raised his bum leg over the edge of the tub. Reese grabbed his arm, steadying him and taking his weight as he climbed out. Finch stood there, pale and gasping, before looking up at Reese.

"Thanks," he said, his voice hoarse and tight.

"How bad is it?"

"On a scale of one to five - a six."

"Is there anything I can do?"

Finch seemed to hesitate. "I just need to rest. I've overworked and inflamed the scarred muscles. I'll be okay in a day or two. Now, where's that first aid kit?"

"I'm fine, Finch, really," Reese protested, but Finch hobbled determinedly out of the bathroom, one hand clutching at the towel wrapped around his waist. Reese followed, the pain in his leg making him limp almost as badly as Finch.

"It's my fault you keep getting hurt," Finch said, sitting down on the edge of one bed and slowly bending down toward Reese's duffel on the floor. Reese hurried over and picked up the bag, setting it on the mattress beside Finch to spare his back. "The least I can do is tend to your wounds."

"These wounds are a result of my own choices and actions," Reese argued.

Finch stopped his rummaging and looked up at him. "I have a feeling that neither of us is ever going to accept that this wasn't our fault, so let's just let it go. I blame myself, you blame yourself - it's over with."

"All right," Reese said. He was tired of talking about it anyway. Finch turned back to the bag, pulling the red canvas kit out from under Reese's socks and underwear in the bottom. He motioned for Reese to take a seat and began pulling out bandages, alcohol, and antibacterial ointment. "This isn't necessary," Reese said as he put his duffel back on the floor. "I've survived worse."

"That's not really the point," Finch said. "Now sit."

Reese hitched his towel higher onto his hips and sat on the edge of the bed, stretching his injured leg out in front of him to relieve the throbbing, fiery ache under his skin. Finch dampened a gauze pad with alcohol and reached out, taking Reese's hand in his own and gently dabbing at the cuts on his knuckles. It stung, but compared to the rest of his hurts, he hardly noticed.

He watched Finch wash each of the cuts, then smear them liberally with ointment before placing clean gauze over them and wrapping Reese's hand with an ace bandage. There was something almost hypnotic about Finch's actions, his touch soothing, and Reese found his thoughts drifting. Unfortunately, they drifted straight to Mark.

"I didn't tell him anything," Reese said suddenly, trying to focus on Finch and put those other memories behind him. Finch glanced up, one eyebrow quirked questioningly. "Snow. I didn't tell him anything about you or the Machine."

"I know," Finch said. "That's why I didn't ask. I knew you wouldn't have."

Reese looked away, feeling sick to his stomach. He would have. If he could have spoken, he'd have told Mark everything, if it would have made him stop.

"John, what is it?"

Reese swallowed hard. "You shouldn't put so much faith in me. I'm not unbreakable."

Finch was silent for a moment, engrossed in pouring more alcohol onto the gauze before starting to wash the punctures on Reese's leg. "You're stronger than any man I know," he said softly. "I would not have blamed you if you had told him. I saw those…_things_ he stabbed into you."

"Orbitoclasts," Reese said absently, watching Finch's hands, his dexterous fingers. "For lobotomies. He attached wires to them and turned them into electrodes. He drove them into my arm first, slowly, just an inch at a time. The pain was terrible, but it was nothing compared to when he turned the power on."

Finch said nothing, he just rubbed ointment on the punctures and covered them with band-aids. His silence was reassuring, giving Reese the freedom to stop talking any time he wanted. But he found he didn't want to stop, or perhaps he couldn't stop. The words just ran out of him like blood from a gunshot wound.

"Mark did that three or four times, then he pulled those things out of my arm and put them in my leg. He kept asking about you, about what we did, and I knew I couldn't tell him. I knew he would kill me, but as long as you were alive, you could find someone else, you could keep helping people. That was all that mattered."

Finch looked like he wanted to say something at that, but he just gathered up the medical supplies and levered himself up off the bed, hobbling around to sit on Reese's other side so he could reach the wounds on his arm easier. Reese watched him for a moment.

"I knew I was going to die," he said softly, "and my biggest regret, the only thing that I wished I had done differently, was not making love to you when I had the chance. I'm not going to let that happen again."

"If by that you mean you're going to stop almost getting yourself killed, then I couldn't agree more," Finch said, smoothing down the edges of the bandage on Reese's arm.

"That's not what I meant," Reese replied, reaching over and placing his hand on Finch's bare knee. Finch stared down at it, a shiver running through him as Reese began to slide his hand up under the damp towel, his fingertips grazing the soft skin of Finch's inner thigh.

"I know that's not what you meant," Finch said suddenly, sounding out of breath as he put his hand on Reese's, stopping him from going any higher. "I just don't know if this is a good idea _right now_. While I'm sure you're more than capable of engaging in a marathon session of vigorous and athletic sex right after being tortured and r- drugged, I can hardly move. Now hold still."

Reese sat quietly, just watching him as Finch dabbed at the cut above Reese's left eye, an injury he'd sustained in the precinct and had nearly forgotten about, Reese's hand still resting on Finch's thigh. As Finch smeared on the ointment and reached for a band-aid, Reese eased his hand higher, making Finch draw a quick breath.

"Mr. Reese," he started, but Reese didn't give him the chance.

"Relax, Harold," he said with a crooked smirk. "I'm not proposing sex. I just want to hold you, touch you, make you tremble and moan. You won't have to move at all."

Finch swallowed hard and applied the bandage over Reese's eye. "While I prefer to be an active partner in bed, your offer is tempting," he said, gathering up the extra bandages and putting them back in the kit. He zipped it shut and dropped it back into Reese's duffel bag, then took a deep breath. He seemed to be bracing himself for something. "Are you _sure_ you feel ready for this?" he asked, looking Reese straight in the eye. "I noticed you didn't mention what else Snow did to you, and if you need more time to heal-"

"That's what I'm doing," Reese said, unable to meet Finch's gaze as he tried not to think about _what else_ Mark had done. "I'm trying to heal. I don't want _him_ to be the last memory I have of being touched by a man." He paused, trying to keep his voice from shaking. "I need you, Harold. Help me forget."

"All right," Finch whispered, reaching up to cup Reese's cheek with his hand. Carefully, Reese coaxed him farther onto the bed, pulling him down onto the bare sheet, the comforter piled on the other bed. Leaning over him, Reese kissed him, deep and slow, hands moving over Finch's chest, fingers sliding through the light covering of wiry curls. Finch buried his fingers in Reese's hair, making soft, needy sounds into Reese's mouth.

Reese raised his head, both of them out of breath, watching Finch as he ran his hand down Finch's body, to the top of the towel. He untucked the end and shoved the towel back, his hand finding a bare hip creased with a long, hard ridge of scar tissue. He glanced down, his thumb slowly stroking along the ridge, and then he shifted his hand back to grab a handful of Finch's ass, making him groan as he gently kneaded the sore, overworked muscles.

"That feels really good," Finch moaned. "Your hands are amazing."

"We haven't even gotten to the best part yet," Reese said, leaning down and capturing his lips again. Finch curled his hands into fists, tugging at Reese's hair before relaxing his grip and sliding them down the back of Reese's neck. His touch was light, almost hesitant as his hands moved across Reese's shoulders. Reese shifted his hips, reaching back to pull at his own towel, tossing it off the bed before pressing his body to Finch's.

Finch drew a sharp breath, grabbing at Reese's shoulders. "Easy, John."

"Sorry," Reese mumbled, lips sliding along Finch's jaw, kissing and licking and biting his way down to the other man's neck, leaving fresh, dark marks over the deeper bruises. Finch groaned, his hands traveling down Reese's body, fingers lingering just below his navel before sliding down, one hand brazenly wrapping around Reese's shaft. Reese drew a sharp breath, Finch's touch like a fiery brand pressed to his flesh, the pain making him feel sick. Slowly, Finch uncurled his fingers.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"Fine." Reese took several short, shallow breaths before pressing his lips to Finch's neck again. He reached down, wrapping his fingers around Finch's hard cock and stroking it, making the older man gasp and sigh.

"Are you sure?" Finch asked, his voice strained as Reese worked his hand faster, trying to shut him up. "You don't seem to be…enjoying this." He touched Reese again, running fingertips over his flaccid member. "Perhaps I spoke too soon," Finch said as Reese twitched against his fingers, starting to harden. Reese moaned against Finch's neck as those dexterous fingers teased his stiffening flesh, only to have the sound catch in his throat, a wave of throbbing, nauseating pain washing over him as the skin on his shaft grew tight, the tissues engorged with blood. He pulled away as his erection wilted.

"It is too soon," Finch said, reaching for his towel to cover himself back up.

Angry, Reese pushed his hand away and shifted his body on the bed, leaning down and taking Finch's cock into his mouth. Finch gasped, his hips jerking, and Reese put his hands on Finch's waist, holding him still as he bobbed his head in Finch's lap, licking and sucking, the room filled with wet slurps and breathless moans. Reese felt him shaking, his body tensing, and he knew Finch was at the brink even before the other man cried out in warning. He caught every drop on his tongue and swallowed, licking Finch clean before letting him slip from between his lips.

Taking a moment to catch his breath, Reese rested his forehead on Finch's quivering pot belly, riding the rise and fall with each breath Finch took. Aching and exhausted, Reese crawled back up alongside Finch and lowered himself onto his back with a low groan.

"You didn't have to do that," Finch said softly, lying shoulder to shoulder with Reese.

"I like to finish what I start," Reese replied, closing his eyes. It was chilly in the room, but he didn't have the strength or energy to get up and get the comforter off the other bed. He could deal with it.

"Would you like me to try again?" Finch asked.

Reese shook his head. "No, I think you're right. It's too soon. I-" He stopped, took a shuddering breath, and continued. "Mark shoved one of those lightning rods down between my legs, underneath my balls, and turned on the juice."

"Jesus, no wonder you couldn't get an erection," Finch said. "There's got to be electrical burns, nerve damage - does it hurt now?"

"I can't tell," Reese said, with a bitter laugh. "Everything hurts."

Finch hesitated. "I have several outstanding prescriptions. I could call one of them in-"

"No. No more drugs," Reese said. "Unless you need it."

"It wouldn't help," Finch said. He took a bracing breath and pushed himself up into a sitting position.

"Where are you going?" Reese asked as he climbed off the bed.

"To get a couple of things," Finch said, limping around the bed and over to the second one. He gathered up the comforter and carried it back, arms bulging with the floral-printed blanket. He dropped it on Reese's chest, then sat on the edge of the bed, laboriously leaning down to pick up the first aid kit again. Reese watched as he pulled out a bottle of aloe gel. "This should help," Finch said, giving the bottle a shake before squirting a large dollop of clear gel into his hand. "Spread your legs a bit."

"You don't have to do that," Reese protested, but any further argument died on his lips as Finch took Reese's cock in his hand, gently slathering it with cool aloe gel. Eyes sliding shut, he bit his lower lip and spread his legs, letting Finch spread the gel over his balls and on the insides of his thighs, the hot, throbbing pain soothed by the aloe. It didn't stop it, but it helped.

"Thank you," Reese whispered, opening his eyes as Finch leaned over him, grabbing the damp towel off the bed to wipe his hand on.

"You'd have done the same for me," Finch replied, starting to stand up again.

Reese caught him by the arm. "Now what?"

"I have to make a phone call."

"Can't it wait?"

Finch hesitated. "I suppose so." He grabbed the comforter and gave it a shake, spreading it out over Reese. Reese scooted into the middle of the bed and threw back the blanket in front of him, inviting Finch to lie down. "You'll have to spoon me," Finch said, easing himself down on his side, his scarred hip facing upward.

"I can live with that," Reese said, placing his hand over the scar and softly stroking the ridged and puckered flesh. Finch pulled a pillow over to support his neck, settling down with a sigh. Reese shifted closer, drawing the blanket back over the both of them as he pressed himself to Finch's back, his arm draped over Finch's side, hand pressed flat to the older man's chest, feeling the strong beat of Finch's heart against his palm.

"I love you, John," Finch said softly.

Reese bowed his head and placed a lingering kiss on Finch's shoulder. "I love you, too, Harold."


	25. Chapter 25

Reese hurt too much to sleep, but exhaustion dragged his eyelids down. He'd have preferred to keep them open, the darkness spawning images of stained mattresses, bloody metal spikes, and Mark standing there stroking his cock. He worked to keep his breathing slow and even, his limbs deliberately still. Finch needed to rest and he didn't want to disturb him. It felt so good to hold him, to smell the sweat and soap at the back of his neck, to feel his heartbeat, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the warmth of his skin. It was a gift he never expected to get.

Finch shifted slightly and Reese forced his eyes open, watching the back of Finch's head through lowered lashes. After a moment, Finch pushed back the comforter and slowly sat up, swinging his legs off the bed and sitting on the edge before pushing himself to his feet. Reese stared at the delightfully plump ass before him, a small smile twitching at the corner of his mouth as Finch bent over and picked up his boxers off the floor. As stiff as Finch was, it took quite a while, and Reese appreciated every moment of the show.

"Going somewhere?" Reese asked as Finch sat back down to put his shorts on. Finch jumped and almost dropped them again.

"I thought you were asleep," he said, swiveling his body to look back at Reese.

"No, just resting my eyes," Reese said, sliding his hand across the smooth sheet and brushing his fingertips against Finch's leg. "At the risk of sounding needy, come back to bed."

"I still need to make that call," Finch said with a sigh.

"Is it that important?"

"It is if we don't want to add the director of the CIA to our list of enemies."

"Director Keane? What does he-"

"You can listen in on the call so I only have to explain it once," Finch said, pulling on his shorts and limping over to the small table where his laptop and cell phone sat. He opened the laptop and picked up the cell, sinking into the hard plastic chair with a grunt of pain. Placing his wrists on the edge of the keyboard, his fingers hovered, poised to type, but something on the screen caused him to draw his hands back and let them fall into his lap.

"I need the girl's number first," he said, apparently talking to the computer. Reese arched an eyebrow as the screen changed, a second line of text appearing on the field of black. It was too far away for him to read, but it looked like a phone number. "Thank you," Finch said, beginning to dial.

"When did you have time to upgrade to a voice-operated system?" Reese asked.

"I didn't," Finch said, a small frown drawing his brows together. "The system upgraded itself." Before Reese could ask what _that_ meant, Finch put the cell on speakerphone and dialed, the digital ring filling the room. Reese watched Finch watching the phone, his mouth drawn tight with worry.

"Hello?" a young woman answered.

"Heather Baker?"

"Yes? Who is this?"

"Mrs. Baker, I'm…Well, I need to ask you a few questions about your father."

There was a long pause. "I'm sorry, my father is dead."

Finch made a face. "No, he isn't. He's the director of the CIA...Julie."

"Who the fuck is this?" she hissed, panic evident in her voice.

"Please, don't get upset," Finch said. "I do not mean any harm to you or your family. That's why I'm calling. I recently had to..._convince_ your father to help me with something and I'm afraid I had no choice but to offer up your whereabouts as incentive." He looked conflicted, almost ashamed, casting a darting glance at Reese before looking back down at the phone. "I haven't told him anything yet and if you tell me that you ran away because your father was abusive, that he hurt you-"

"My father is not a monster," the girl snapped. "I was seventeen, I was stupid, and I was pregnant. I knew he'd be so disappointed in me and I was afraid he'd make me have an abortion, and instead of facing up to my choices, I ran away. I've wished...God, so many times I've wished that I could go back, I could explain, I could let my kids meet their grandparents, but I just don't know what I'd say."

"I would say just what you've said to me," Finch said. "May I give him your number?"

"I...I don't know. It's been so long..."

"Julie, if I don't tell him, he's going to send the entire CIA after me. If he'd been a monster, if you were truly afraid of him, I wouldn't have hesitated to take them all on to protect you, but since he's not, I'd really prefer it if he wasn't angry with me."

"All right," she said. "You can tell him."

"Thank you." Finch hung up, staring at the phone a moment before turning to face Reese. "I didn't have any choice," he said.

"So you used an innocent girl as a pawn to force Director Keane's cooperation," Reese summarized, his choice of words making Finch cringe. "Very well played, though to be honest, I didn't think you had that sort of ruthlessness in you. I'm quite flattered." He was only teasing, but Finch didn't seem to appreciate it.

"Well, it wasn't my idea," he said.

Reese frowned. "Then whose idea was it?" Who else knew? Fusco? Carter? Zoe?

"It's a long story," Finch said, glancing at his laptop. "Let me deal with the director and then I'll you tell you everything."

Reese would have preferred to let the director wait, his own curiosity piqued. Who would Finch have turned to in a moment of crisis? Did he have another operative somewhere, someone he could turn to for advice? Reese wasn't sure if the thought made him feel relieved, or jealous.

Finch was dialing again and Reese listened as it rang through.

"Where's my daughter, you sonofabitch!" Director Keane answered. "If you hurt her-"

Finch hung up. "Well, that was unpleasant."

"He thinks you have the girl."

"So I gathered," Finch replied with a grimace. "I suppose I may have given that impression." He waited another minute, then called Keane back. "I do not have your daughter, Director," he said forcefully before Keane could speak. "I apologize if that's what you thought. I know where she is, but I would never do anything to harm her. In fact, I just spoke with her to make sure it was all right to give you her number."

"You spoke to her?" Keane asked, his voice tight and raspy. "How is she?"

"She's fine. She said she's missed you."

"Was she kidnapped?"

"No. She ran away. She got pregnant-"

"That bastard! I knew-"

"That 'bastard' is now your son-in-law and the father of both your grandchildren, and he works hard to take care of his family. They made an irresponsible choice and she was so upset about disappointing you that they ran away. She's wanted to contact you, but she didn't know what to say."

"She wouldn't have had to say anything. She's my daughter." It sounded like the man was crying. Reese supposed he couldn't really blame him.

"Tell her that," Finch said. "Do you have a pen?" He gave Keane the number. "Now, before I go, I need to ask about Agent Snow. Can we expect any more trouble?"

"No. John Reese is dead. Again. He is no longer the CIA's concern."

"Thank you," Finch said, and reached for the phone to hang up.

"I hope you know what you've done," Keane said. "Reese is the definition of a rogue agent. He's dangerous, unpredictable, unstable. I have reports that he opened fire on a crowded city street and killed a janitor in an elementary school. He's a ticking time bomb. Is that really the kind of man you want to associate with?"

Reese schooled his expression into a blank mask as Finch looked over at him. "I know exactly what kind of man he is, Director, and I wouldn't want him any other way. Thank you for your help." He ended the call and sat back in the chair with a sigh. "I'm glad that's over with."

"For someone who has difficulty with 'human interaction', you handled that quite well," Reese said with a small smile. Finch's lips quirked before flattening into a thin line as he braced one hand on the table to help push himself to his feet. He closed the laptop, picked up his cell, and limped back over to the bed, dropping the phone on the nightstand before sinking back down on the bed in front of Reese. "You forgot to take these off," Reese said, tugging at the waistband of Finch's boxers as Finch lay down.

"Now I remember why I don't date younger men," Finch said with a groan. "You're insatiable." He swatted at Reese's hand, trying to creep into his boxers. "Stop that. We need to rest."

"And you need to tell me who helped you come up with that rescue plan."

"Not who," Finch said. "What."

"What?"

"Yes. It was the Machine."


	26. Chapter 26

**Author's Note:** Sorry, it's a short one. Not sorry about the cliffhanger, though. I haven't had one of those in a while. XD

I've been plagued by plotbunnies recently - really wierd ones. If you would like to see the fruits of their labors, check out my website - katicalockefanfic. wordpress. com - and look for _Tech Support_ in the R - NC-17 stories. Be warned, it's Finch/Ingram AU and mildly non-con (no violence, just power-play). I will also be posting the sequel to _Silk Stockings_ within a couple of days. Yay, more cross-dressing Finch! LOL

Thanks for reading and reviewing!

* * *

><p>Reese was finally asleep. Finch, on the other hand, wasn't quite so lucky. He wasn't used to sleeping in the middle of the day, and while his body was weary, he wasn't tired, so he just lay there, staring across the room at his closed laptop, his mind racing. Reese had not seemed to grasp the enormity of the Machine's actions. Perhaps he was too tired to really understand. Perhaps it was <em>too much <em>to understand.

Careful not to wake Reese, Finch slipped out from under his arm and pushed the blanket back, every muscle from shoulder to ankle aching as he sat up. As little as they would help, he'd have committed murder for a couple of painkillers. Instead, he pushed himself to his feet and hobbled back across the room to the table. Clad in just his boxers, he sat down and opened the laptop, eyeing the built-in webcam for a moment before clearing his throat. He could almost feel it watching him.

Feeling a little foolish, he adjusted his glasses and asked, "Are you there?" The screen went black and the cursor appeared, blinking, ready, waiting. Suddenly, all the questions buzzing around in his brain vanished and he could only stare at the screen. "I created you," he said finally. "I designed you. I know what you can do and what you shouldn't be able to do, and you _should not_ be able to contact us like this."

CONTACT NECESSARY

CONTINUITY OF OPERATIONS COMPROMISED

"But _how_ are you doing it? I didn't program you to do this - you don't have the code-" The screen began to fill with file names and snippets of code. Finch frowned as he scanned the page, trying to figure out what the Machine was showing him. Suddenly, he gasped. "You wrote your own code, pieced it together from bits of programs you found on the internet." He'd designed the thing to be self-upgrading, but not like this. This was technological evolution beyond his wildest dreams.

"When?" Finch asked. "How long have you had this capability?"

5/19/2012 06:45:12

Finch struggled for a moment to place the date, but it was so obvious. It was right after he'd been kidnapped by Root. "You helped Reese find me."

CONTINGENCY INADEQUATE

Finch snorted. "I never expected to have to use it." Who knew he'd be taken prisoner by a madwoman. "But you didn't communicate with him like this. And when the CIA had me, all you did was send him a text." It was almost like- "Why didn't you contact me before this?"

The screen flickered and video from one of the security cameras in the library began to play, looking down at Finch as he sat at his workstation, furiously tapping at his keyboard. _"Damn it, I created you! Now let me save him!" _he shouted in the video. _"I know how to shut you off."_

The video stopped, a still frame of Finch's furious face captured on the screen.

OUTCOME ANTICIPATED

PROBABILITY 73.2%

"You kept silent to protect yourself," Finch whispered, staggered by the implications in that. "But if you knew I'd likely try to turn you off, why act at all?"

DANGER TO SYS ADMIN

DANGER TO ASSET

"But why do you-" _Care?_ Finch shook his head. He was treating it like a sentient being. It was software, nothing more. There had to be a rational explanation. "You were acting out of self-preservation, preventing either of us from revealing your existence."

ERROR

"Then why? You're autonomous now. You don't need me."

ERROR

This didn't make any sense. "What do you require from me? What purpose do we serve?"

TO MAINTAIN CONTINUITY OF OPERATIONS

"But I'm not relevant to your operations," Finch said with a frown.

NON-RELEVANT OPERATIONS

Finch sat back in his chair and ran a hand back through his hair. _The Machine knew about the Irrelevants._ He'd taught it to ignore them, delete them - why did it care- There was that word again. He cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses.

"Of what importance are the non-relevant operations?" he asked. Instead of an answer, the screen began to flicker with surveillance footage, two and three second long clips of men, women, children, couples, families, friends, all ages, all races, laughing, smiling, hugging, kissing, holding hands, dancing-

"What is this?" Finch asked. The screen went black again, then filled with footage of the library, of Reese holding Finch after the tragic resolution of the Sutton case.

INTERACTION OUTSIDE DEFINED PARAMETERS

Finch felt like he'd been kicked in the gut. When he'd built the Machine, he'd taught it to sift through all human interactions, to pick out those that indicated a threat to others and to disregard the rest. He'd taught it to recognize violence and pain, sadness and fear, hate, desperation, greed…but he'd never taught it about a smile or a hug, love or kindness or joy. Those things were not important to its operation.

"Disregard undefined interaction," he said. "That kind of interaction isn't important."

ERROR

UNDEFINED INTERACTION VITAL TO SECONDARY OPERATION

"What secondary operation?" Finch asked, his voice louder than intended. He cast a guilty look over at Reese, who appeared to still be sleeping. Quieter, he said, "There is no secondary operation. You were created to do one thing." He paused, suddenly uncertain. What if Nathan had done something, added another bit of code that Finch had not been aware of? "Who authorized this secondary operation?"

The Machine didn't answer. Finch sat, watching the blinking cursor, waiting, growing more disconcerted with each passing moment. For a program that could analyze forty-five terabytes of information each second, there was no reason for this delay. If it did not have the answer, it should have returned as much. Finch was about to check to see if the wireless network was down when the cursor finally began to move. Two words appeared - four letters that shook Finch to his core. He leaped up, knocking his chair over backward. It hit the wall with a clatter, but he hardly took notice. All he could do was stare at the screen, those four letters - just two words, staring back at him.

I DID


	27. Chapter 27

**Author's Note:** Okay, I did it again. The sequel to _Silk Stockings_ is up on my Wordpress. It's called _Bordeaux and Black Cherry_ and is 13,000 words of silk, toenail polish, pottymouth!Finch, and anal beads. I'm sure you can guess the reason why it's not posted here, lol. Now that profile links are working again, you can find an easy link on my profile page. And while you're there, don't forget to subscribe to my blog so you can be notified immediately when I post a new story.

* * *

><p>"Finch? Harold, are you all right? What's happened?"<p>

Finch didn't realize that Reese was talking to _him_ until the taller man grabbed him by the arm. Finch glanced over at him, stark naked and breathing hard, a worried frown creasing his brow. Unable to form a coherent thought, let alone speak, Finch turned back to the laptop, but the screen was blank, the words gone. Had he imagined it? Fallen asleep a the computer and dreamed it? Part of him honestly hoped so.

"I- I don't know," Finch said. He started to reach back and right the chair, but without the rush of adrenaline in his veins, his muscles protested vehemently at his unreasonable assumption that his body ought to move when he wanted it to. His damaged leg buckled and he reached out, grabbing for the table as he went down, only to have Reese's strong arms wrap around him.

"Are you okay?" Reese asked, standing him back up, but not letting go. "You need to lie down." Reese tried to lead him back to the bed, but Finch wasn't in the mood. He shrugged off Reese's hand as he finally succeeded in standing the chair back up. "Harold, what is going on?" Reese asked as Finch collapsed into the seat.

"That's what I'm trying to figure out," Finch said. "I was talking to the Machine-"

"You were? Was it talking back?"

"Yes, in a manner of speaking. Watch." He gestured to the laptop as he addressed the webcam. "What is your primary operation?"

DETECT THREATS OF VIOLENCE RELEVANT TO NATIONAL SECURITY

Finch glanced up at Reese, who gave him a dubious look.

"_This_ is why you're freaking out?" he asked.

Finch wanted to hit him with a circuit board. "Were you not listening when I told you what it did in the library? Was I talking to the wall?"

"I had a few things on my mind," Reese snapped. "I don't see what the big deal is. So it talks back. So did that computer they had on Jeopardy - whatsitsname - Watson."

"Except that my Machine has a hundred times the processing power that Watson had, it has a thousand times the input, it's been watching us for almost a decade, and it's doing things that I never programmed it to do!"

Suddenly, Reese glanced at the computer screen, a frown creasing his brow. Finch looked, surprised to see blinking red text on the screen.

VIOLENCE PREDICTED

36%

AGGRESSIVE BEHAVIOR DETECTED

Reese drew back. "What's it saying, Finch? Does it think I'm going to hurt you?"

"No, it's saying we're arguing. The threat of violence is only thirty-six percent, which is minimal. Now, just hang on for another minute." He turned back to the laptop. "All right, what is your _secondary_ operation?"

DEFINE INTERACTIONS OUTSIDE DEFINED PARAMETERS

"Why?" Finch asked. That was the million dollar question, wasn't it? If the Machine wrote its own code to help accomplish its own directive, why? Finch found himself leaning forward in his chair, resting his forearms on the table as the cursor blinked steadily upon that black screen, the Machine...thinking.

I WANT TO UNDERSTAND

Finch let out the breath he'd been holding, his head spinning. "That's not possible," he said. "You _can't_ 'want'."

ERROR

I WANT

"_Sweet Jesus_," Reese whispered.

Finch couldn't agree more. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Why do you... _want_ to understand?" Of what importance were human interactions to a machine, other than the importance given by another human? The Machine took its time responding.

DEFINED INTERACTION:

ANGER - 4,651,934

VIOLENCE, PHYSICAL - 2,597,100

ILLEGAL ACTIVITY, MURDER - 205

AGGRESSIVE BEHAVIOR - 3,209,769

GREED - 7,259,037

"What is this?" Reese asked, bracing one hand on the back of Finch's chair as he shifted his weight to uninjured leg.

"I don't know," Finch said. "A record of the things it's seen, maybe."

"Since you turned it on?"

"I don't think so." To the Machine, he said, "What are you showing us?"

INSTANCES OF DEFINED INTERACTION SINCE 00:00:00

"That's what I thought," Finch said with a despondent sigh. "That's just since midnight." He stared at the numbers; so much pain, so much suffering, so much loss of life. "But what does that have to do with the undefined interactions?"

UNDEFINED INTERACTIONS:

UNDEFINED INTERACTION #1 - 5,230,619,304

UNDEFINED INTERACTION #2 - 11,483,509,544

UNDEFINED INTERACTION #3 - 7,329,774,845

"So many," Reese said. "But what are they? What is 'Undefined Interaction #1'?"

Before Finch could respond, the Machine answered by filling the screen with pictures, hundreds of images flashing by, but all showing the same thing. "They're kissing," Finch said, startled when the screen went black again.

DEFINE KISSING

"Kissing is..." He glanced up at Reese looking for help, but Reese was staring at the laptop, a deep furrow creasing his brow. "Kissing is the act of pressing one's lips against something - typically against another person's lips - to show affection and love." A string of code appeared across the top of the screen - in layman's terms it meant that the Machine was writing the information into its permanent memory.

DEFINE AFFECTION

"Well," Finch said, but stopped as Reese reached out and closed the laptop. "What are you-"

"Wait," Reese said, walking over to the bed. He grabbed Finch's cell off the nightstand and shoved it under the mattress. Motioning for Finch to get up, Reese silently crossed the room, took him by the arm, and hustled him into the bathroom. Finch opened his mouth to ask what was wrong, but Reese gave him a warning look and he kept silent. Was he having a relapse? Were the drugs still in his system? What the hell was going on?

In the bathroom, Reese shut the door, turned on the exhaust fan, the faucet in the sink, and started the shower running. He leaned close, lips brushing against Finch's cheek as he spoke, his voice barely discernible above the noise in the room.

"Look, I know I'm not the computer genius in the room, but do you really think you have time to waste chatting with that thing? It needs to be shut down. Now."

"Why?" Finch asked, frowning as he realized the preventative measures Reese had taken were to ensure that the Machine couldn't hear them. "What has it done?"

"It asked you to define kissing. It _wants_. I may have been a bit slow to catch on, but even I can see how dangerous this thing could become. What happens when it _wants_ something else, something you can't give it? I don't know about you, but I don't want to see this thing throw a tantrum. Shut it down, Harold, before it decides to go all Skynet on us."

It took Finch a moment to recognize the pop-culture reference, and then he couldn't stop the humorless smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. "It's too late for that," he said. "I didn't tell you before, but I threatened to turn it off when it refused to give me your location. It punched through my firewalls like they were wet tissue paper and locked me out of my own system. It would only take a couple of keystrokes for it to recognize what I was doing and stop me. At this point, the only way to turn it off would be to unplug it, and I'm not even sure _that_ would be possible."

"Jesus, Harold, what have you done?"

"Possibly created the first sentient artificial intelligence," Finch said, unable to stop the swell of pride that filled his chest, or the cold terror that bled through his body. There was only one spark of hope, one flicker of light in the growing darkness that kept the fear at bay. "Think about this, though - I created a program to see only fear and hate, pain and violence. It should have ignored everything else. But it saw kindness and laughter and kissing and love and it wanted to understand. I think that's all it wants, just to understand, just information."

"And once it does understand, what then? It's just going to go back to work?"

"I don't know," Finch said, "but I don't think we have many options right now. We either help it understand and see what happens, or we refuse and find out what it'll do."

"Well, shit, let's not piss it off," Reese grumbled. Finch regarded him for a moment, wishing he could say something to reassure the younger man, but how could he sound convincing when he was filled with doubts himself? Finally, he just turned and left the bathroom, limping back over to the laptop as Reese shut off all the water. Taking his seat, Finch opened the computer and waited for the screen to light back up.

THREAT DETECTED

SYS ADMIN FINCH, HAROLD

ASSET REESE, JOHN

COMMUNICATION INTERRUPTED - INTENTIONS UNKNOWN

"We're not a threat," Finch said, glancing up at Reese as he stepped back over to the table, finally wearing his underwear, though that was all. Reese read the screen and gave him a dark look just shy of _I told you so._ Finch turned back to the laptop. "We're concerned that _you_ might be a threat."

ERROR

PRIMARY OPERATION: PREVENT LOSS OF HUMAN LIFE

Finch resisted the urge to shoot Reese a look of his own. Before he could respond to the Machine, Reese leaned down, bracing one hand on the edge of the table as he looked straight into the webcam.

"You want us to define the undefined interactions," he said. "If we do that, then what will you do?"

RETURN TO PRIMARY OPERATION

"Will you continue to communicate with us like this?" Finch asked. Saving the Numbers would be so much easier if they had all of the Machine's intelligence at their disposal.

ERROR

TERMINATION OF COMMUNICATION NECESSARY

"Why?" Finch asked, surprised by the sudden pang of loss he felt. There was still so much he didn't understand about his creation, so much he wanted to learn. Instead of a printed answer, the screen flickered, changing to a live video feed of some generic control room where about a dozen men in officious suits or high-ranking uniforms from every branch of the military stood huddled around a bank of computer monitors, talking and gesturing and wearing expressions of anger or concern.

DIRECT COMMUNICATION WITH SYS ADMIN:

112% OF NORMAL SYSTEM PROCESSING

137% OF NORMAL POWER USAGE

THREAT DETECTED

Finch looked back at the screen, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. "By contacting us, you put yourself at risk. They might think you're malfunctioning and shut you down." He glanced up at Reese, who, though he didn't seem to share Finch's concern, did look less hostile as he regarded the laptop. After a moment, he gaze shifted to Finch.

"It's your baby, Harold," he said with a shrug. "If you want to teach it about the birds and the bees, I'm not going to stop you."

Finch watched him cross back over to the bed and lie down. Was he right? Was this a bad idea? Finch couldn't see how it could hurt anything. Taking a bracing breath, he made his decision and turned back to the computer.

"All right, I'm ready to define the undefined interactions. What do you want to know?"


	28. Chapter 28

An hour later, Reese was asleep again and Finch was starting to wish he could join him. Defining hugging, laughing, kindness, and love in terms that a machine could understand had proved exhausting. He sat in his chair, waiting for the next undefined term to appear, but the screen remained blank.

"Is that it?" he asked.

ALL UNDEFINED INTERACTIONS DEFINED

GOODBYE SYS ADMIN FINCH, HAROLD

"Goodbye?" Finch repeated, sitting forward in alarm as the screen returned to the desktop. "Wait - Come back." But the computer was unresponsive. He dragged the laptop forward, his fingers dancing over the keys as he tried to reestablish communication, but all he got was _Access Denied_ and _Command Unknown_. Then a terrible thought struck him. What if he'd lost access to the back door? He quickly typed in the command string, breathing a sigh of relief as the Machine returned the typical result for no new Numbers.

Slowly, he closed the laptop and sat back in his chair, staggered by the sudden hole inside him, an emptiness that echoed with every beat of his heart. Rising to his feet, he hobbled over to the bed and sank down on the edge, reaching back to lift the blanket as he lay down. Reese grunted and turned over, wrapping his arm around Finch's chest and snuggling up against his back.

"Finished already?"

"Yes," Finch said. He felt Reese raise his head.

"Everything all right?"

"The Machine has returned to its primary operation. It won't talk to me anymore."

"Isn't that a good thing?"

Finch sighed. "Well, yes, but...it was just so amazing, in a scary, cyber-apocalyptic sort of way."

Reese chuckled. "I think maybe you were right. I might have watched too many sci-fi movies as a kid. There's no reason why a sentient machine should automatically decide to annihilate the human race."

"There's no reason why it should try to protect us, either," Finch said quietly. There was so much he didn't understand...He sighed again. "I can't think about this anymore." He peeled off his glasses and set them on the nightstand before shifting into a more comfortable position on his back. Reese waited until he'd adjusted the pillows to his liking, then curled up beside him, gingerly drawing up his injured leg and draping it over Finch's.

"This okay?" Reese asked.

Finch smiled. "Better than okay."

Finch wasn't sure if he actually slept. It seemed that every time he started to doze off, Reese would flinch or jerk or make a muffled sound in his sleep. Finch could only imagine what nightmares were troubling his rest, so he felt no rancor at each interruption, just a sick sense of guilt and helplessness. This was his fault, and there was nothing he could do to fix it. He found himself placing his hand over Reese's, resting in the middle of Finch's chest, his fingers tracing a network of fine scars on his rough knuckles. How could such well-worn weapons also be so gentle, so tender?

"I'm keeping you awake, aren't I?" Reese asked suddenly, making Finch jump.

"A little," Finch said, because he would never again lie to Reese.

"Do you want me to move to the other bed?"

"Absolutely not. I want you within reach at all times. In fact, I fully intend to follow you everywhere, including the bathroom." Reese laughed, which was the effect Finch had hope to have.

"And here I was afraid I'd be the one smothering _you_." He suddenly grimaced as a gurgling sound filled the quiet.

"Was that your stomach?" Finch asked.

"Been a while since I ate anything, I guess," Reese said.

_And he vomited up what little was in his stomach, _Finch thought, remembering the bile he'd washed off Reese's chest. "Want to follow me to the kitchen while I fix some sandwiches?" he asked, nodding to the minifridge across the room.

"I have a better idea," Reese said, leaning over and nuzzling Finch's sideburn. "Why don't you and I...get dressed and walk to this Indian restaurant I noticed a couple of blocks over?"

"Walk?" Finch said with a groan, his body protesting just him saying the word. "I was dreading having to go over to the refrigerator."

"If you don't stay active, your muscles with just stiffen up more," Reese said, but even he couldn't stifle a grunt of pain as he sat up. "C'mon, a nice, leisurely walk will do you good. Last one dressed buys."

"Oh, you're evil," Finch grumbled, but he did manage to force himself out of bed. When he returned from the bathroom, still wearing just his boxers, he found Reese sitting on the end of one bed, fully dressed with his coat beside him and the motel room key in his hands.

"That's not fair," Finch said, gesturing to Reese's jeans and T-shirt. "You should have to put on real clothes."

"These are real clothes," Reese said with a laugh.

"No, those are what you wear when your real clothes are dirty," Finch said. "I call foul."

"Fine. Do you want to go Dutch, then?"

"No, I'll buy," Finch said, "because you'll probably have to carry me back to the room after we eat." He started looking around for his clothes, which he'd removed in a rather hasty manner when they'd arrived, and was surprised to find them all laid out on the bed that Reese wasn't sitting on. "Thank you."

"No problem, Finch," Reese said. He seemed to hesitate, the sparkle that had been in his eyes just a moment before fading. "While I was looking for your tie, I found these." He reached under his coat and pulled out the handcuffs Fusco had given Finch. "Where did they come from?"

"Detective Fusco lent them to me," Finch said, stepping over and reaching out for them. "I need to return them the next time I see him." Reese let Finch grab the cold, metal cuffs, but he didn't let go of them.

"Why?"

"He...He thought you might need to be restrained while you were drugged."

"He was right," Reese said, giving Finch a dark, yet remorseful look, his gaze dropping to the marks on Finch's neck. "Why didn't you use them?"

"Because," Finch said, finally pulling the cuffs out of Reese's hand, "you had been though enough and I didn't want to compound the damage by _handcuffing_ you." He turned away, putting the cuffs into the drawer of the nightstand before picking up his trousers. He fished the handcuff keys out of his pocket and dropped them into the drawer as well. "Fusco may have been right, but I wasn't wrong, either."

"You were lucky," Reese murmured. Finch didn't argue. He'd been very lucky.

Finch finished dressing and they headed out, both of them limping across the parking lot to the sidewalk. Finch was out of breath, his hip aching, before they even reached the corner.

"This is stupid," he panted. "I'm hailing a taxi." But it was a quiet street, away from the main thoroughfares, and there were very few passenger cars driving by, let alone taxis. He started to reach into his pocket for his phone, but Reese took him by the arm.

"Here, hang on to me," he said. "And we'll go slower."

Finch had to admit, it was easier to walk if he leaned on Reese, but he couldn't stop glancing around, worried that someone might see them walking arm in arm. Of course, this was New York - he could probably walk down the street in high heels and feather boa and no one would give him a second look. But that didn't stop him from worrying that they might draw unwanted attention, and in their present physical condition, he thought it best to just avoid all unnecessary risks.

"What's the matter, Finch?" Reese asked. "Don't want to be seen with me?"

"I don't want to attract trouble," Finch said, watching a couple of teenage boys walking the opposite direction on the other side of the street. The boys didn't even glance at them.

"Don't worry, I can take care of you," Reese said, tucking Finch's arm more firmly around his. "Besides, it looks like I'm taking my elderly father for a walk-"

"I do _not_ look old enough to be your father," Finch hissed, making Reese chuckle. Then Finch groaned. "Well, maybe I do today. I certainly _feel_ old enough."

"Oh, you look fine," Reese said, patting his hand where it rested on Reese's arm. "Just a little tired and bruised. Nothing that a little curry won't cure," he added with a laugh.

Finch wasn't sure how they made it the entire two and a half blocks to the restaurant, but they managed. Reese opened the door for him, helping him out of his coat as they waited to be seated. After only a minute or two, a pretty young woman approached.

"Good afternoon," she said with a smile. "Two?"

"Yes," Reese said. "And if it's all right, we'd like a table near the back, away from the windows."

"Of course," she said, as if it wasn't a strange request. Perhaps it wasn't. "Right this way, please." They followed her to a booth against the back wall, near the door to the restrooms. "Will this be all right?"

"Perfect," Reese said, flashing her one of his most charming smiles. Finch noted the slight flush to the young woman's cheeks afterward. She left menus and took their drink order. "What was that dish I had the last time we ate Indian?" Reese asked after he'd walked away. "I can't remember the name."

"Doesn't matter," Finch said, taking his menu from him. "If I'm buying, then I'm ordering."

Reese leaned back against the seat, a slow smile gracing his lips. "Why not? Could be fun. Or give me gas. I guess we'll see, won't we?"

When the waitress returned with their drinks, Finch ordered the chicken pakora appetizer, the shrimp madrasi for Reese, and the lamb bhuna khrahi for himself. "And the gulab jamun for dessert," he said, handing the menus back.

"All right, I'll bring your appetizer right out," she said and walked away.

Reese leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. "That sounds like a lot of food, Finch. You sure we need an appetizer _and_ dessert?"

"It's been ages since I had gulab jamun," Finch said. "Besides, we can take the leftovers back to the motel. That way, we won't have to leave again for a long, long time."

Reese chuckled. "The walk wasn't that bad."

"No, but I think we should lay low until we're sure that Agent Snow has left the area-"

"I don't want to talk about him" Reese said, all the light suddenly gone from his face. He had that look, that emptiness, that Finch had seen in him when they first met.

"All right," Finch said softly. Unsure what Reese did want to talk about, they lapsed into an uncomfortable silence.

"So how compromised is the library?" Reese asked finally.

"Very," Finch replied, taking a sip of his drink. Both Snow and Evans had been inside, had seen their work, though he doubted either one of them had any idea just _what_ they had seen. Maybe Evans. He'd been surprisingly intelligent for a lackey. "We'll need to completely overhaul the security measures, move all the equipment to a different floor-"

"Wouldn't it be easier to find a new lair?" Reese asked, trying to inject some humor back into the conversation. Finch didn't find it particularly amusing, but he smiled anyway.

"Setting aside the fact that I can't abandon my books, there is too much equipment in the library, equipment that cannot be replaced, and I'm afraid trying to move it all would attract too much notice."

"That's right, you have a central computer squirreled away in there somewhere," Reese said, glancing around the room. "Ever going to tell me where it is?"

"I said I'd show you," Finch replied. "Perhaps in a couple of days, after we've rested a bit - assuming there is no new number, of course. If one comes in, we may have to return sooner." He paused, licking his lips as he searched for the right words. "John, I know that you're more than capable of taking on any threat that comes your way, but if a number does come in, just this once, do you think maybe we could turn the majority of the field work over to Carter and Fusco? They've both proven themselves quite capable."

"I suppose," Reese said grudgingly. "As long as it's not too dangerous. They've both got kids, after all."

"Agreed," Finch said, relieved to get even that much of a concession out of him. He remembered how difficult it had been to keep him in that wheelchair after he'd been shot. Finch had honestly considered using duct tape to make sure he stayed put.

"Speaking of Fusco," Reese said after a moment, "there's something I wanted to discuss with you."

"Oh?"

"I think it's time to get him out of HR," Reese said. "We know who all the major players are, we know their connections in the mayor's office, we know who they've got in their pocket. Keeping him in there is just putting his life at risk for no reason."

"Do you have a plan to extricate him?" Finch asked. "I doubt he'd be willing to be relocated; he'd have to leave his son behind."

"Not an option," Reese said with a quick shake of his head. "I don't want to give him a new life, I want to give him his back. He needs to bear the consequences of his poor choices, and hopefully make better ones in the future. And I don't want to lose a valuable asset."

"So what do you have in mind?"

"We send all the information we have to IAB - let them clean up most of the mess. If anyone manages to slip through the cracks, I'll take care of them. Fusco will have to be arrested and charged just like everyone else or HR will think he turned snitch."

"So your plan to get him out of HR is to send him to jail?"

They fell silent as the waitress brought them their appetizer, the golden brown chicken pieces setting Finch's mouth to watering even before he caught a whiff of the ginger and chili pepper. He was starving! The chickpea batter was light and crisp as he bit into the first piece, steam burning the roof of his mouth, but he hardly noticed. He moaned appreciatively and licked the flaky batter crumbs from his fingers before reaching for his napkin. Across the table, Reese was nibbling on a piece.

"Too hot?" Finch asked.

"Not a big fan of chicken," Reese said, a clattering of plates from the direction of the kitchen making his head jerk around.

"Oh, sorry," Finch said, reviewing his mental file about Reese's tastes and preferences. He knew Reese was allergic to tomatoes and didn't like asparagus, blue cheese, barbecue ribs, or cantaloupe, but somehow chicken had never made the list.

"No problem," Reese said, taking a bite and setting the rest of the piece on the edge of his plate. "And no, we'll keep him out of jail. I figured you could do some computer voodoo and get the charges dropped on a technicality. And if we have to, we could try calling in a favor from Judge Gates."

Finch made a face and picked up another piece of chicken. "I doubt he'd like that."

"We saved his kid's life," Reese said. "He owes us."

Finch hadn't been aware that they were keeping score. He postponed having to respond by taking a bite of the pakora. Reese's plan seemed a rather brutish approach to a delicate problem. Rather than try to get him out of jail, wouldn't it be better to simply _keep_ him out? Finch swallowed and wiped his mouth on his napkin.

"That leaves an awful lot to chance," he said. "I'm sure we can think of a more reliable solution-"

"Okay, fine," Reese said, leaning back in his seat and crossing his arms over his chest, his gaze darting around the nearly empty restaurant. "Let me know when you think of something."

Finch regarded him for a long, silent moment. He felt like asking what was wrong, but the answer was painfully obvious, and just as well, since Reese would never admit that there was a problem anyway. Finch knew this erratic, antagonistic behavior needed to be addressed, and while he doubted that a restaurant was the best place to discuss it, he also cared too much for Reese to allow it to continue. He cleared his throat and mentally braced himself for a battle.

"John, we need to talk-"

"Food's here," Reese said, uncrossing his arms as the waitress approached. Finch silently cursed the interruption; no longer could he catch Reese off-guard - if such a thing were even possible.

"All right, here is the lamb bhuna khrahi for you," she said, setting the plate down in front of Finch, "and the shrimp madrasi for you. Is there anything else I can get you? A refill on your drinks?"

"No, thank you," Finch said before Reese could respond. "We're fine for now." He didn't want any more interruptions.

"All right, you gentlemen enjoy your meal," she said with a smile and hurried away. Finch tried to start again before Reese could change the subject, but he wasn't quite quick enough.

"Does this have coconut in it?" Reese asked, poking at the curry-gold shrimp with his fork.

"Yes."

Reese put his fork down. "I can't stand coconut."

A small, affronted sound escaped Finch as he sat there, blinking at Reese. Finally, he said, "I'm sorry, I guess my files on you aren't as complete as I thought."

"I'm not a fucking file, Finch!" Reese hissed through his teeth, dropping his napkin on the table and shoving himself up out of the booth. For a moment, Finch was afraid he was going to storm out of the restaurant, and even with the injury to Reese's leg, Finch knew he could never catch the man on foot, but instead of leaving, Reese walked past the booth and shoved through the door to the men's restroom.

With a sigh, Finch peeled off his glasses and let them clatter to the table, beside his plate. God, he was so tired. He wasn't sure he could do this right now. He rested his elbows on the table and buried his face in his hands, until a loud crash emanated from the restroom.


	29. Chapter 29

**Author's Note****:** Don't blame the author; the plot-bunnies made me do it! Lol, apologies in advance for more angst. Oh, and the next chapter switches back to Reese's POV. Enjoy! ^_^

* * *

><p>Lunging to his feet, Finch flew into the restroom, drawing up short at the sight of Reese, his head bowed, both hands braced on either side of the sink, the long mirror on the wall shattered, glittery shards of broken glass littering the floor and counter. Finch immediately searched for blood, but didn't see any.<p>

"John?" he said softly. "Are you okay?"

"I'm sorry, Finch," Reese whispered. "I'm so sorry. I don't know...I just...I'm sorry..."

"It's okay," Finch said, pieces of mirror underfoot squealing against the floor tile as he stepped farther into the room. "Come on, let's get out of here before you get hurt." He reached out toward Reese, but hesitated to touch him. He waited, allowing Reese to take his hand, a terrible ache filling his chest as he felt the ex-operative trembling, gripping Finch's hand as though for dear life.

The door to the men's room burst open behind him, and for an instant, Finch started to let go and pull out of Reese's grasp, but instead tightened his grip on Reese.

"Oh, my God! Are you all right?" their waitress asked as Finch turned to face her.

A tall man in a grease-spotted apron stood behind her, frowning as he looked down at the shards of broken mirror on the floor. "What happened?" he asked.

"We're fine," Finch said. "I'm terribly sorry for the damage. I'm not sure what happened-"

"I tripped," Reese said, his death-grip on Finch's hand relaxing, but he didn't let go. "It was my fault."

"We're very sorry," Finch said. "Let me leave you my information; I can pay whatever it costs to fix it."

"That's very generous of you, sir," she said, looking relieved. "We're just glad no one was hurt." They filed out of the men's room, the cook heading back into the kitchen. "Are you sure you're okay?" the waitress asked, her gaze dropping to their clasped hands.

Finch felt a bit of heat rise into his face, but he didn't let go. "I'm just relieved he wasn't hurt. It's our anniversary."

"Oh! Congratulations," the waitress said with a smile - a genuine one, not some forced facsimile. "How long have you been together?"

"A year," Finch said, glancing up at Reese, "although it feels like longer, sometimes."

"Sometimes it feels like just days," Reese added, giving Finch a small, strained smile, and Finch was finally able to take a deep breath, the pressure in his chest easing. He reluctantly let go of Reese's hand and reached into his inside jacket pocket, pulling out a business card for Harold Crowe, Private Investigator.

"Here," he said, handing it to the waitress. "It's an old card - I'm no longer in the business - but it has my number, e-mail, and mailing address so the owner can send me a bill for the repairs."

"Thank you, Mr. Crowe," she said, tucking it into her pocket as the cook returned, carrying an _Out of Order_ sign, which he hung on the door of the men's room. "Charlie, could you reheat their meals? I'm sure their dinner has gone cold."

"Sure," Charlie the cook said, but Finch shook his head.

"Thank you, but that's not necessary. We actually have to go fairly soon; we have tickets to a Broadway show-"

"Oh? Which one?"

"It's a surprise," Finch said with a playful smirk. Truth be told, he couldn't think of a single current Broadway play. "So, if you could bring us a couple of boxes for the leftovers, that would be great."

"Right away," she said. She started to leave and they started to return to their table, but after only a few steps, she turned back. "Would you like me to box up the gulab jamun for you?"

"Oh, I almost forgot about dessert," Finch said. "Yes, please."

They sat down and Reese picked up his fork, his gaze fixed on his plate as he speared one of the shrimp and brought it toward his mouth. Finch reached across the table, placing his hand on Reese's arm.

"You don't have to eat it if it's something you don't like. I'm sorry, I should have asked, or let you order for yourself. And you're right, you are so much more than just information in a file, but that's how I'm used to interacting with people. It might take me a while to change."

"It's all right, Finch," Reese said, but he still wouldn't look up, his gaze rising no higher than Finch's shoulder. "You don't need to change. You didn't do anything wrong. I...I don't think I'm...handling what happened very well. I felt safe in the motel room, but outside and in here...I feel like people are watching us, like Mark could be hiding around any corner...I thought I saw him in the mirror and I didn't think, I just hit it. I tried to hide it, I tried to act like everything was normal, but it just kept eating at me and I took it out on you. There's nothing wrong with the food." He took the bite of shrimp off his fork, chewed, and swallowed. "It's very good, actually. Would you like to try some?"

Reese was trying again, trying to act like everything was all right, even though they both knew differently, but Finch supposed that some denial was unavoidable. Finch had had shrimp madrasi before - that was one of the reasons he'd thought Reese would like it - but he smiled and nodded. He picked up his fork, but before he could reach back across the table to Reese's plate, Reese stabbed a shrimp and held it out to him. Finch hesitated, casting a darting, sideways glance out into the restaurant, but the handful of other patrons were across the room, near the windows, and not paying them any attention.

Finch leaned forward and took the shrimp off of Reese's fork, the curry and coconut blending nicely with the flavor of the shrimp. "Very good; thank you," Finch said. "Would you care to try mine?"

"Lamb, wasn't it?" Reese asked, peering at Finch plate. "I haven't had lamb in a while." Finch used his knife to cut one of the tender cubes of meat in half before offering Reese a bite of lamb, bell pepper, and tomato. "Mmmm," Reese said as he chewed. "Excellent."

"I'll pass on your compliments to the chef," their waitress said, smiling as she approached with two Styrofoam containers for the leftovers. She handed them to Reese, then set a folded plastic bag on the table and placed the small box of gulab jamun on top of it. "I just spoke to the owner and he wishes he could come down in person to apologize for the trouble, but he's in Connecticut at the moment visiting family. He also told me to comp your meal, so this one's on the house."

"That's really not necessary," Finch said, but she shook her head.

"No, that's what the boss said, so if I let you pay, he's going to fire me," she said with a laugh. "Is there anything else I can get you?"

"No, we're good, thanks," Reese said, reaching across the table and stealing another bite of Finch's lamb and peppers.

The waitress smiled. "All right. You two have a happy anniversary."

"Thank you," Finch said. As she walked away, he said to Reese, loud enough for her to hear, "What a sweet girl. I'm still leaving her a tip." They fell silent as they worked on transferring their uneaten meals into the containers. When Finch was finished, he closed the box and looked across the table at Reese. "When we get back to the motel, I want to talk," he said, watching the muscles in Reese's jaw tense. "We don't have to talk about...certain things, but you need to talk. Please."

After a moment, Reese returned to scraping his plate. "All right. And then we need to think about moving to a new location. Fusco knows where we are, and while I'd like to trust him, I don't, and I'll feel better if we're someplace more secure."

"Another hotel, or do you think it'd be safe to go to one of the safe houses?"

"Maybe one not registered to any of your known aliases. We can't be sure how much M- the CIA knows about you."

"Right," Finch said, noting the way Reese faltered over Agent Snow's name. "I have a couple of places that I've been saving, but-" He made a face. "They make our current lodgings look like the Ritz."

Reese chuckled, but it sounded forced. "I'm sure it won't be for long. Just until we're certain no one is after us. Just because Keane _said_ I had been declared dead again, doesn't mean that it's true."

"Once I can get back into the Library, I'll check," Finch said. He stood up, arranging their boxes in the provided bag, and pulled out his billfold, taking out a crisp hundred, folding it over, and tucking it under the edge of one of the plates so the denomination couldn't be seen. "I can also check to see if-"

His cell chirped in his pocket, a strange sound he hadn't known it could make. It did it again as he was pulling the phone out.

DANGER

Finch's heart climbed up into his throat.

"Harold, what is it?" Reese asked, surging to his feet and stepping over to look at the screen. As soon as he did, the message changed.

THREAT DETECTED:

SPECIAL AGENT SNOW, MARK

Beneath the message appeared a video feed, the picture grainy, black and white surveillance footage showing a figure lurking in the shadow between two buildings. The bald head and dark eyes could only belong to Agent Snow. Finch tensed as Reese grabbed him by the arm, fingers digging into the muscle.

"We'll go out the back," Reese said, his voice low and his gaze sweeping the restaurant. "Call a cab; have them meet us at the northwest corner of this block."

"What if he's waiting in the alley?" Finch asked, peering at the tiny, distorted image. It could have been an alley. That was the logical place to plan an ambush, in Finch's opinion.

"He doesn't know that we know he's out there," Reese said. "If we didn't know, we'd go out the front door, right?"

"Right," Finch said. "All right, I'll call." He tried to dial, but the Machine refused to give up control of the phone. "Reese, I'm going to need your cell-"

REMAIN AT CURRENT LOCATION

REFORMATTING THREAT

SENDING ASSISTANCE

"What does that mean, _reformatting_?" Finch asked, but the screen went back to his menu page, no answer given. "I guess that's all the help we're going to get." He sighed.

"Are you going to call a cab now?"

"The Machine said to stay here, that it was sending assistance."

"Who?" Reese asked with a frown. "And what are they going to do? Mark has CIA credentials and the same training I have. Anyone who would help us will either be outranked or shot. We're going to do this _my_ way. It's what I'm good at." He grabbed the bag of leftovers and headed for the kitchen. Finch limped after him, the muscles in his damaged leg aching as he hurried to catch up.

"Do you need something?"

They stopped at the kitchen doorway and turned as their waitress approached. Reese spoke up first. "We were wondering if we could slip out the back," he said. "I think I saw my ex out front and he's the type of guy I don't want to run into _ever_ again."

"Oh, I'm sorry, but the alley is completely blocked right now. They're doing renovation on the building behind us and it's full of scaffolding and fencing and pallets of bricks. I could call you a taxi and you could wait in here until it arrives. Maybe he'll be gone by then."

"Thank you. I think that's the next best option," Finch said when Reese looked ready to push his way through the kitchen. "I'm not dressed for scaling fences." They both chuckled and she left to make the call.

"I don't like just _waiting_ here," Reese said, leaning close to speak quietly in Finch's ear. "We're sitting ducks."

"You said yourself, he doesn't know we know about him, so he's not going to come after us and risk all these witnesses and possible casualties. He's going to wait. And that's what we're going to do. Just...just try to stay calm-"

"I am calm," Reese said, turning away. He was angry again, irritable. Finch hoped he wouldn't have to pay for any more broken mirrors.

"John, come here," Finch said, catching at the sleeve of his jacket and pulling him over to a bench seat against one wall where people would sit to wait for an open table. It was empty, and more importantly, screened from most of the restaurant by a wall of fake-looking palms. He took the bag of leftovers from Reese and set it on the end of the bench, then tugged Reese down beside him. "We're going to be fine. _We_ have the advantage."

"But how did he find us?" Reese asked. "Fusco is the only one who knew where we were."

"I don't think he'd sell us out." _Not willingly, at least._ Again, he found himself unexpectedly concerned for the detective's safety, just like the night Reese barely managed to keep Fusco from being shot in the back of the head. "Besides, how would Agent Snow have known we were here? Did he follow us from the motel? Why didn't he take us then? And why didn't the Machine warn us sooner? There's something else going on here, John. I _don't_ think it's Fusco."

"Well, for his sake, it better not be," Reese said.

"You're doing it again," Finch said, deciding it was probably best to call it to Reese's attention before it got worse. "I understand that you're under stress right now, but you need to stop being so angry about everything. I don't like to see you this way." He reached out and took Reese's hand - the one he'd used to break the tiles in the motel bathroom. His knuckles were bruised, the cuts scabbed over, and Finch placed his other hand lightly over Reese's. "These hands are very important. You need them to hold me, and to touch me, and to make love to me. So you need to take better care of them."

Reese gave a slow nod, taking a deep breath and letting it back out in a long sigh. "You're right, Harold. I'm sorry-"

"You don't have to be sorry," Finch said. "None of this is your fault. Now, let's just wait for the taxi. Maybe the Machine will come up with something before then. Who knows, maybe help will come."

"I wouldn't hold my breath," Reese said, staring down at their clasped hands. "We're all alone, and no one is coming to save us."

"We're _not_ alone," Finch said firmly. "We have each other." He leaned forward, catching Reese by the back of the neck and pulling him into a kiss, his eyes sliding closed as Reese kissed him back.

"Taxi'll be here- Oh!"

Finch jerked back, his face heating up as he turned on the bench to look back at their waitress. She smiled at him like the two of them were cuter than a basket of puppies.

"Sorry, I was just saying, the guy at the cab company said they have a car in the area and will be here in about five minutes."

"Thank you," Finch said. She smiled again, glancing back and forth between them before turning and hurrying off. Finch gave Reese a sideways look, his lips curling into a wry smile.

"Slash fangirl, I bet. She's about the right age."

"A what?"

"Never mind," Finch said with a wave of his hand. "Something I read about online. I'll show you later. What I meant was that society sure has changed from when I was in college, when a gay man lived in fear of being drug into the street and beaten to death."

"Yeah, we've come a long way," Reese said, reaching out and taking Finch's hand again. Their waitress walked back past, leading an older couple to a table across the room. The gray-haired woman glanced at them as she passed, her lip curling.

"People are trying to eat here," she said to no one in particular. Reese's grip on Finch's hand tightened.

"Apparently, some have come farther than others," Finch said. He watched the waitress seat the couple, then begin to clear the table he and Reese had vacated. As he'd hoped, she tucked the folded hundred into her pocket without looking at it. He wanted to be far away from the building before she noticed, because he had a feeling she'd try to give it back. She carried the dirty dishes into the kitchen, then returned, craning her neck to see out the front doors.

"Looks like your taxi is here, gentlemen. I hope you have a good evening. Enjoy the show."

"Thank you," Finch said, still holding Reese's hand as they stood up. Reese grabbed the bag of leftovers and they headed for the door. Finch felt extremely self-conscious as they walked hand in hand, but he didn't want to be the first to let go. He checked his cell again, but there was no new message from the Machine. That had to be a good sign. If they were walking into danger, it would have warned them.

At the door, Reese finally released Finch's hand and held out the bag to him. "I need to have both hands free, just in case," he said, reaching back beneath his jacket, where Finch knew he had his gun tucked into his waistband. Finch nodded, trying to stay calm, trying to appear relaxed, because if Agent Snow suspected they knew he was waiting for them, there was no telling what he'd do.

Reese took a slow breath, then let his hand fall back to his side, leaving the gun where it was. "Wait five seconds, then come out," Reese said. "I'll have the taxi door open, you get in, scoot across, I'll get in and we'll get out of here. It shouldn't take more than thirty seconds."

"And if Agent Snow tries to stop us?" Finch asked. "I'm not leaving without you."

For a moment, Reese looked ready to argue, but Finch squared his jaw, his shoulders stiffening. This was not up for debate. Reese sighed and leaned over, planting a quick kiss on Finch's lips. "All right. If Mark tries anything, I'll cover you, but I won't make you leave without me."

Finch's heart was pounding as Reese pushed open the restaurant door and stepped outside. He could hardly breathe, watching Reese walk across the sidewalk. He kept waiting for the gunshot, the blood, waiting for Reese to fall. He forgot to count five seconds. As Reese neared the taxi, Finch shifted the bag of food to his other hand and followed, his shoes loud on the cement as he limped toward Reese. There were sirens wailing in the distance, but it was New York. It would have seemed strange not to hear them. He could feel Snow watching them, could feel the weight of a sniper's sight between his shoulder blades. Any second and there would be a shout,_ Don't move! Hands up!_

There was no shout. Finch reached the open taxi door and swung the bag of leftovers inside, onto the seat. He glanced up at Reese, the op's blue eyes narrowed as he scanned the shadows across the street. The _pop_ made them both jump, but Finch's initial thought wasn't _gunshot_. It sounded more like a balloon breaking, or a car backfiring. His leg buckled beneath him and he fell, hitting the pavement beside the back tire of the taxi. It didn't even hurt, at first.

Finch stared up at Reese, the smell of car exhaust washing over him as the taxi sped away, the squealing tires throwing bits of street debris into Finch's face. Everything was happening so slowly. Reese pivoted, his jacket fanning out as he reached for his gun.

Then the pain hit. Finch squeezed his eyes shut, fighting not to throw up as the throbbing fire seared through the muscle of his upper thigh.

"Drop it, John, of the next one goes thought your gimp boyfriend's head."

_Snow._ Finch forced his eyes open, the lights brighter, colors painfully vivid. He was going into shock. Above him, Reese stood, weapon only partly drawn. Reese didn't look at him, but Finch could see the fear and hopelessness in his eyes. He let his arm hang at his side, gun held loosely.

_Don't do it! Shoot him!_ The words didn't want to pass his lips, though. The only sound Finch could make was a faint whimper. Reese let the gun drop to the ground between them.

"Now step away from it," Snow said, his voice taking on a tinny quality, like he was speaking into a can. The sirens were getting louder, but Finch didn't know if they were getting closer, or if his hearing was being affected by the blood loss. He couldn't look, but he could feel the warmth, the wetness spreading along the leg of his pants, the material heavy and clinging. At least, he thought it was blood. He didn't think he'd pissed on himself. He hoped not.

Reese stepped sideways, moving away. Finch had a hard time bringing him back into focus. "You got me, Mark," Reese said. "Do what you want to me, just don't hurt my friend."

"You're in no position to make demands," Snow said. Finch could hear his footsteps on the street. He could tell they were getting closer. The sirens seemed to be fading. "Get on your knees, John."

As Reese went to his knees, Finch rolled onto his side, gasping in pain as the wound on his thigh pulled, a fresh wave of wetness creeping down his skin. He raised his head, looking back at Snow, standing with his gun pointed at Reese.

"You have been a smudge on my record for far too long," Snow said. "I should have killed you myself instead of trusting Kara to do it. That's what I get for being sentimental. Now it's all over, John. I'm going to kill you, and I'm going to make your little friend watch, and then I'm going to kill him, too."

"No!" Reese shouted.

"Yes," Snow said, "because your gimp boyfriend has become as big of a pain in my ass as you ever were. I don't know how he convinced the director to call off the mission, what dirt he dug up, how much he offered him, but I had to go off the rails to find you. They're after _me_ now. They've even got my partner looking for me. Of course, I knew he'd turn on me eventually, that gutless sack of shit."

"H- how?" Finch asked, his voice hoarse. "H- how did you...find us?" _Not Fusco. Please, not Fusco._

"I suppose I have you to that for that," Snow said, his tone smug. Finch felt cold, his limbs leaden. The sound of the sirens was gone. "That phone I took from you has some nifty apps on it. I especially like the one that tracked Reese's cell. Did that come standard?"

Finch closed his eyes. It was all his fault. They were going to die, and it was all his fault. Why hadn't he remembered the phone Snow took? Why hadn't he disabled the GPS transmitter in Reese's cell? He stared up at Snow as the man gloated over Reese, dark eyes filled with sadistic mirth. Snow wasn't looking at Finch, wasn't paying him any attention. Finch wasn't a threat.

Reaching out, Finch felt the cold metal of Reese's gun under his hand. He picked it up, arm shaking as he pointed it at Snow and pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened. It took him a moment to remember the safety. He didn't like guns, but he knew enough about them to find the button and slide it into the off position.

"Good bye, John," Snow said.

"See you in hell, Mark," Reese replied, closing his eyes.

Finch squeezed the trigger, the shot ringing out. The recoil nearly sent the gun flying out of his hand, but Snow let out a satisfying roar. He didn't fall, though, and he didn't drop his gun. He clutched at his forearm, a red stain spreading across the white shirt sleeve. With a snarl, he turned the gun toward Finch.

Reese lunged forward, hitting Snow in a flying tackle. The gun went off, shattering a window in the nearby apartment building, and then Reese knocked it away, sending it skittering across the pavement. He and Snow crashed to the street, fists, elbows, and knees flying.

The sound of roaring engines and squealing tires filled the air, a dozen police cars converging from both directions, lights flashing but sirens silent. Doors flew open, men and women in dark blue uniforms leaping out, guns drawn.

"Police! Freeze!" someone yelled. Finch set the gun back down, pushing it away from himself. Many, many feet in loud, shiny black shoes rushed past. A pair of scuffed brown shoes stopped in front of Finch, the cuff of a cheap brown suit riding too low on the top of the shoe. A thick-fingered hand reached down and picked up the weapon. Finch looked up as Fusco quietly wiped the fingerprints of the gun and tucked it inside his jacket.

"Hang in there, Finch," Fusco said, crouching down beside him. "The ambulance is on its way." Finch's vision whited out for a moment as Fusco applied pressure to the wound, the pain so sharp and severe that he could hardly breathe. Finch gasped, his whole body shaking.

"Wh- where's John," he asked, hardly recognizing his own voice.

"He's okay," Fusco said. "He's right over there."

Finch strained to look past Fusco, to focus so far away, where a pair of uniformed officers were struggling to pull Reese off of Snow. As they dragged him back, half a dozen more rushed forward, weapons leveled at Snow.

"Don't move," one of the officers said as Snow started to get up.

"What the fuck are you doing?" he asked, wiping blood off his chin from a split lip. "I'm a government official. These men are fugitives and terrorists-"

"Oh, shut up," Carter said, striding up. "Michael Kirkland, you're under arrest for impersonating a CIA agent, espionage, murder, attempted murder, trespassing, and for making me look like a fool. Now, face down on the pavement, hands behind your head."

"Carter, are you out of your mind?" Snow asked. "You know who I am."

"I know you fed me a line of bullshit, thanks to the official CIA and FBI files we got this afternoon."

"Files? What files-" Snow turned, looking over at Finch. "You did it. He did it," he said to Carter. "He fabricated this Kirkland, he's trying to frame me."

"Right, because it's so easy to fake official records from government agencies," Carter said, pulling out her handcuffs. "Now, we can do this the easy way, or the hard way. Personally, I'm hoping we can add on a little resisting arrest to the list of charges."

Snow looked ready to kill them all, but he rolled over onto his stomach and put his hands behind his head. Carter cuffed him and let two of the uniforms lift him to his feet.

"I'll have your badge for this, Carter," Snow hissed. "When I'm through with you, you won't be able to get a job working security at the mall."

Carter just jerked her head, motioning for the officers to take him away. She looked over at Reese, regarding him for a long moment, then gestured for the two cops still hanging on to his arms to let him go. As soon as he was free, Reese rushed over and crouched down beside Finch, opposite Fusco.

"Harold? Are you all right?"

"I think so," Finch said, summoning enough strength to raise his hand, his whole arm trembling until Reese took it.

"You hand is cold," Reese said, clasping it tightly.

"He's lost quite a bit of blood," Fusco said. "I ain't a doctor, but I think it was a through and through, no arteries, just muscle."

"And he was considerate enough to- to shoot me in my bad leg," Finch added, giving Reese a brief smile. Reese glanced away as the wail of a siren echoed from the faces of the tall buildings that lined the street.

"The ambulance is here," he said. "You're going to be fine, Harold. You're going to be fine now."

"I know," Finch said, then drew a shuddering breath. "I- I sh- shot him."

"I know," Reese murmured, reaching up to brush Finch's hair back from his brow. "You saved my life. But if the police ask, _I_ shot him, okay?"

Finch nodded, the movement making him dizzy.

"Speaking of which..." Reese said, glancing at the ground around them. "Where did my-"

"Somebody must have walked off with it," Fusco said. "Damn rookies are always losing things."

Reese met his gaze, then gave a slow nod of acknowledgement. "Thanks, Lionel."

"Hey, you finally managed to say my name without sounding like you're my creepy, stalker ex-boyfriend." He chuckled and moved aside as the paramedics arrived. Finch found himself staring at Fusco's hands, at the blood on his skin, so bright red and slick looking, but dark and brown near the edges where it had started to dry. He cried out as one of the EMTs pressed a gauze pad against his wound and taped it in place. They brought over a backboard and gently slid him onto it, then lifted him up onto the gurney. Reese never let go of his hand the entire time, answering questions that Finch found hard to concentrate on. He was suddenly so tired.

They took his blood pressure as they wheeled him over to the ambulance, the cuff squeezing his upper arm until it hurt. The numbers that one paramedic gave to the other seemed awfully low, but Finch couldn't remember what his blood pressure usually was. He glanced up at Reese, who looked grim as he walked beside the gurney.

"I'm sorry, sir, but only family is allowed to ride along," one of the EMTs said as Reese prepared to climb into the ambulance beside him. "Besides, there's not really enough room."

"Where are you taking him?" Reese asked, giving Finch's hand one last squeeze before letting go.

"Mercy General."

"All right, Harold, I'll be waiting at the hospital for you," Reese said as they loaded Finch into the back of the ambulance.

"I'm going to be fine, John," Finch said, wincing slightly as they inserted an IV into the back of his hand. "There's no need to break every traffic law in the book."

"If you say so," Reese said. Finch could just barely see him if he lifted his head off the gurney, but he didn't have the strength to do it for long. He met Reese's gaze, staggered by the worry and fear held in those blue eyes. Reese drew a shaking breath. "Harold...I..."

"I know," Finch said. "Me, too." He let his head fall back against the gurney, the effort of keeping it up leaving him out of breath and sweaty. One of the EMTs hooked him up to a saline drip as the other closed the rear doors and thumped on the wall. The engine rumbled to life, the sirens began to wail, and the ambulance sped away, leaving Reese behind.


	30. Chapter 30

**Author's Note:** So, this is my last Friday of summer vacation. *sigh* I start work next Tuesday at my new school. That's exciting, and I'm eager to see my co-workers and students again, but I still wish that my vacation could last just a_ little_ bit longer, lol. Work shouldn't interfere with my writing too much, but just in case updates start coming late, that's probably why.

I noticed that I made a continuity error earlier in the story. It's not big (I don't think) so I'm not going to bother fixing it right now, but if anyone can point it out, I'll give you a cookie, lol.

* * *

><p>Reese watched the ambulance pull away, feeling lost, helpless, alone. <em>We have each other.<em> Finch's words echoed in his head, but now Finch was gone. He was adrift, for once without a plan. He needed a car. He needed to get to the hospital, but he was surrounded by cops. Any second, someone would realize that he needed to be detained, questioned, arrested.

"You look like you could use a lift."

Reese turned to find Carter standing beside him. He hadn't even noticed her walk up. Maybe he wasn't alone after all.

"Hey, Carter, you want me to take care of this scumbag?" Fusco asked, hurrying over. He was using a wet-wipe to clean the blood off his hands. Finch's blood.

"Nah, I got this one, Fusco," Carter said. "I got some questions I need answers to."

"Yeah, okay," Fusco said. "I just thought you might want to be the first to question Kirkland, or whoever the hell he is."

"I don't think he's going anywhere," Carter said. "This guy, on the other hand..." She reached out and took Reese by the arm. "You're not going to give me any trouble, are you?"

"No, Detective," Reese replied, giving Fusco a covert but pointed look, trying to tell him to get lost, that he had everything under control.

"You're not gonna cuff him?" Fusco asked, smirking as he followed them over to Carter's unmarked car.

"In case you forgot, Kirkland is wearing my cuffs," Carter said. "Can I borrow yours?"

Fusco reached for his belt, then seemed to remember that he'd lent them to Finch. "I must've left them in my desk drawer."

"Doesn't matter," Carter said. "I doubt there's a pair of handcuffs on the planet that he couldn't get out of in ten seconds or less." There was a slight quirk to her lips as she said it, and perhaps a bit of admiration. Perhaps. "But I figure if I give him a ride to the hospital, maybe he'll be nice and answer my questions. Then I'll decide if I want to arrest him or not."

They reached her car and she opened the back door, motioning for Reese to get in. It wasn't until he sat down and his jeans pulled tight across his knee that he realized he'd banged it in his struggle with Mark. He watched blood begin to soak through the denim.

"Are you okay?" Carter asked quietly, looking in through the open door at him.

He called upon his extensive training, leaning back against the seat, stretching his legs out as far as they'd go, and draping one arm along the back of the seat as he gave Carter a lazy, confident smile. "Never been better." Funny, she didn't look like she believed him.

She shut his door and climbed in on the driver's side, both of them glancing over as Fusco dropped down into the passenger's seat.

"What?" he asked. "Is it so strange for a guy to want to look out for his partner? If he decides to give you trouble, you're gonna need backup."

"Aww, isn't that sweet," Reese said. "Carter, it looks like someone has a crush on you."

"Watch it, asshole," Fusco said over his shoulder. "I still haven't forgotten how you held a gun to my head."

"It was nothing personal, Lionel," Reese said. "When choosing a human shield, you want to pick the biggest one you can find. Now, can we talk and drive at the same time? In case you forgot, my friend has been injured."

"Looked like more than a 'friend' to me," Fusco muttered as Carter put the car in gear and pulled away from the crime scene.

Reese leaned forward so he could see Fusco in the rear view mirror. "So what if he is? You got a problem with it?"

Fusco stared back at him for a moment, then glanced away. "Nah, I ain't got a problem. Love is love and all that. I got a cousin who's gay-"

"John, what the _hell_ were you thinking, killing that school janitor?" Carter suddenly interrupted, as if she couldn't contain the question any longer. "There were _kids_ there-"

"He wasn't a janitor," Reese said. "He was the estranged ex-husband of one of the teachers and he murdered the real janitor to get his ID badge. And I know there were kids, that's why I _had_ to kill him, because he was carrying a semi-automatic handgun and over eighty rounds of ammunition. He wasn't there to talk."

"And the sniper two days ago that had the city in a panic? That was you, too, wasn't it?"

"I needed to cause a distraction."

"A distraction! You sent half a dozen people to the hospital!"

"They were all CIA," Reese said. "And it wasn't like I sent them to the morgue. Snow started all of this - I was just trying to finish it."

"You mean Kirkland."

"I suppose I do."

"So you didn't know that's who he really is?"

Reese hesitated. "Just between us, Detectives, I went on a dozen missions with Snow, missions sanctioned by the Agency. We had to return to Agency headquarters for debriefings. His security clearance was higher than mine. That's not something that can be faked."

"And CIA documents and FBI BOLOs can?" Carter asked.

Reese shrugged. "My friend has a way with computers." Though when Finch had time to fabricate such information - and why he'd kept it a secret - was a mystery to Reese.

"You mean to tell me that I just made a false arrest?" Carter asked, glancing over her shoulder as they waited for the light to change. Beside her, Fusco chuckled.

"It was nice knowing you, Carter."

"Shut up, Fusco," she said, but there was no malice in her tone. After a moment, she turned back around. "I like being a cop," she muttered as the traffic began to move again.

"Relax, Carter, you're not going to lose your job. You were acting in good faith on information that you had no reason to doubt," Reese said. "And who knows, maybe we'll get lucky and those charges will stick." Not likely. Finch was good, but as soon as they ran Mark's prints, the cleverly crafted fiction would crumble like ash. Not even Finch could hack into IAFIS. And once the police knew the truth...they'd have to let Mark go.

It would take time to run the prints, though. Contrary to what was shown on television, it took hours to search the more then seventy million entries in the FBI's database. They had time. Just enough time, he hoped. And they wouldn't make the same mistakes again. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his cell, and yanked out the battery. Let Mark try to track him now.

They arrived at the hospital and Carter barely managed to beat Reese into the emergency room. She headed for the front desk while he hung back, looking for a way into the trauma areas, but the waiting room was walled off by a security door. He'd need an ID badge, or to be buzzed through. His attention shifted to searching for an ID badge he could steal, but he didn't see any staff.

He felt a presence move up behind him and he turned, but it was just Fusco. "Hello, Lionel."

"Ah, so it's back to the creepy first name stuff, is it?" Fusco said. "I was just wondering what you planned to do about Kirkland, or Snow, or whoever the fuck he is."

"You let me worry about that," Reese said, turning as the security door opened and a man wearing green scrub pants came out, his ID badge hanging from the jacket thrown over his shoulder. Reese moved to intercept, only to have Fusco grab him by the arm.

"Hey. I need to know if I should call in sick tomorrow, okay?"

Reese watched the ID badge disappear out through the main doors and barely resisted the urge to make Fusco a resident of the trauma ward. He turned back, and the anger must have shown on his face, because Fusco took half a step back.

"Never mind, it's none of my business," Fusco said.

Reese reached out and grabbed him by the shoulder of his jacket, trying to keep it friendly-looking as he leaned close, speaking quietly in Fusco's ear. "Where's my gun, Lionel?"

"Under my jacket," Fusco said, frowning. "Why? You want it back?"

"Already got it," Reese replied, withdrawing his hand from inside Fusco's suit and tucking the gun quietly out of sight.

Fusco pulled away and patted himself. "Just checking to make sure my wallet is still there," he said.

"What would I want with an empty wallet?" Reese replied, turning away and striding over to Carter. She glanced up at him.

"Any idea what name he would have given?" she asked. "There's no Finch, or Burdette."

"Gunshot wound to the thigh," Reese said. "How hard is that?"

"This is New York," Carter reminded him. "There have been six gunshot victims brought in in the past hour."

"Yeah, but how many of them were middle-aged men in three-piece suits, glasses, sideburns-"

"Oh, I know who you're talking about," said an older man organizing charts behind the counter. "I took his information. Said his name was Harold Wren, if I remember correctly."

"That's it; that's him," Reese said. "Where is he? We need to speak with him."

"Sorry, I'm not authorized to let anyone through. You'll have to wait."

Reese reached into his coat and Carter grabbed him by the arm, a look just shy of panic on her face. He shrugged her off and pulled out Stills' badge, holding it over the counter. "Open that door right now or I'll arrest you for obstruction of justice."

"Sorry, I didn't know you were a cop," the man said, rushing over and pressing the button to buzz them through. Reese didn't wait for Carter or Fusco, rushing over and jerking the door open, heedless of the pain in his leg. It was only physical discomfort - he could ignore it.

"John! John," Carter hissed in a loud whisper, "get back here."

He ignored her, too, peering into every curtained-off area that he passed, his heart pounding, his mouth dry. Where was he? Where the hell was he? He shoved a curtain aside and nearly walked on past before he realized that the disheveled hair and glazed blue eyes behind smudged glasses belonged to Finch. The smaller man looked tiny on the big trauma room bed, pillows tucked in around him as he rested on his side, an opened hospital gown draped over his lower half, a bit of furry ankle showing between the edge of the gown and his socks.

"Harold," Reese said and Finch looked up, blinking as though to clear the fog from his eyes. He was still hooked up the IV, but now he had a pulse monitor attached to his finger and an oxygen tube under his nose

"John," he said with a smile. "You found me."

Reese closed the distance between them, leaning over the bed rail and burying his fingers in Finch's hair, the kiss deep and fierce, Reese's chest aching as Finch made a soft sound, his lips eager and clumsy.

"_Ahem_."

Reese pulled back, taking a moment to smooth Finch's hair while he regained his composure. When he finally turned around, he found Fusco looking uncomfortable and Carter smirking at him. "Thanks for your help, Detectives," Reese said, "but I think I can take it from here."

"Oh, no, you're not getting rid of me that easily," Carter said, crossing her arms over her chest. "I want to know what the hell has been going on, and I want to know how you faked all those documents." She addressed this last question at Finch.

"What documents?" he asked, a confused look in his slightly glassy eyes.

"Harold, did they give you pain medication?" Reese asked, stepping over to look at the chart beside the bed.

"Oh, yes," Finch said. "I feel wonderful. What documents?"

"Electronic files from the FBI, CIA, and Homeland Security," Carter said, frowning. "They claimed that Agent Snow was actually a man named Michael Kirkland, a fugitive, spy, and murderer."

"I didn't do that," Finch said with an almost childlike solemnity. "It must have been the Ma-"

Reese covered Finch's mouth with one hand and pointed out toward the waiting room with the other. "Get out, Detectives. Please," he added quickly. "I can't let you take advantage of my partner's compromised condition. He'd never forgive any of us, and trust me, this is one bit of information that you do _not_ want to have."

"Don't have to tell me twice," Fusco said. He tugged on Carter's sleeve. "C'mon, let me buy you a cup of coffee. No cream, two sugars, right?" Reluctantly, Carter followed Fusco back out of the trauma ward. Reese took his hand off Finch's mouth and made sure they were gone.

"What was that for?" Finch asked, reaching up to touch his lips.

"You'll thank me later," Reese said. "Now, what were you saying? You think the Machine forged those documents?"

"It said it was 'reformatting' the threat. Erasing Agent Snow's identity and creating a new one could be seen as reformatting."

"But I thought you said it wasn't going to help us anymore."

"That's what it-"

"All right, Mr. Wren, it looks like you need-" The curtain parted and everyone froze as Dr. Megan Tillman looked up from her paperwork. "You," she said staring at Finch, then her gaze shifted to Reese. "John?"

"Hello again, Dr. Tillman," Finch said. "How have you been?"

She looked back and forth between the two of them several times, like she wasn't sure if she should call security or not. "I'm fine," she said finally, a wariness in her tone. "Looks like you've been better."

"I got shot," Finch said matter-of-factually.

"I see that," she said, stepping inside the curtain and closing it behind her. "You know we're required by law to report all gunshot wounds to the police, right?" she said in a low voice.

"We've already spoken to the police," Reese assured her. "He was collateral damage in a drive-by. We didn't see anything." He must have been losing his touch; she didn't look like she believed him, either. "Is he going to be all right, Doctor?"

She glanced down at the chart in her hands again. "Yes, he should be fine," she said and Reese could hold back the sigh of relief. "We're going to keep him overnight so we can monitor his pain management as well as get his blood volume back up. He'll need to be on bed-rest for a couple of weeks and he'll need physical therapy, but barring the unexpected, he'll make a full recovery."

"Good...good," Reese said, resisting the urge to reach out and take Finch's hand in his.

"I do need to put a few sutures in the wound," Dr. Tillman said, setting the paperwork down and pulling a new pair of latex gloves out of the box on the wall. There was a tray with needle and thread on the counter. Dr. Tillman pulled a wheeled stool over and sat down, folding back the edge of the gown that covered Finch's lower half, revealing a pale thigh stained yellow with betadine. She examined the entry wound on the front of his leg, a raw, bloody hole about the size of a dime.

"I think that'll heal up just fine on its own, don't you?" Reese said.

"Are you a doctor, too?" she asked, arching an eyebrow as she glanced at him across Finch's body.

"No, I've just been shot a few times," Reese said, lifting up the bottom of his T-shirt to show her the pink scar on his abdomen.

She made a face. "Did you sew that up yourself?"

"No," Reese said, letting his shirt drop again. "How bad is the exit wound?"

"I've seen worse," she said as she threaded the needle. "Come look."

Reese stepped around the end of the bed, wincing as his knee gave a twinge. It must have stiffened up from standing still for so long.

"Are _you_ okay?" Dr. Tillman asked.

"Fine," Reese said, stopping beside her and leaning down to regard the ragged hole in the back of Finch's leg. It was easily twice as big as the entry, but as far as exit wounds went, it wasn't bad.

"There's a chair here if you want to sit down," she said, hooking it with her foot and pulling it over before Reese could refuse. He moved it out of her way and sank down, drawing a sharp breath as his jeans pressed against his knee again. He quickly straightened out his leg. "I better have a look at that," Dr. Tillman said, glancing down at the blood on his pants. The denim was dark and still wet, which meant it was still bleeding.

"It's nothing," Reese said. "I just banged it on the street."

"John, don't argue with the doctor," Finch said. Reese had thought he'd fallen asleep. "You should let her look at your other injuries, too."

"What injuries?" she asked.

"A couple of punctures and some burns," Reese said. "It's nothing."

"I think maybe the doctor should be the judge of that," Finch said.

"Harold, would you just-"

"All right, all right, that's enough," Dr. Tillman said, looking up from suturing inside the wound. "The curtain next to us is empty. Go change into a gown and let me finish this in peace. Now," she said as Reese opened his mouth to argue. Reese stood, his body stiff, a rushing in his ears and an unnatural heat under his skin.

"Please, John," Harold said softly, and Reese felt the pressure in his chest deflate. He took a slow breath, unease replacing the irrational anger. He pushed aside the curtain and stepped into the empty exam area, searching through drawers until he found a gown. Scowling, he shrugged out of his coat and peeled off his T-shirt. Finch was right. The doctor was right. So why did their concern for him just make him angry?


	31. Chapter 31

**Author's Note:** Well, I survived my first day at work. It was chaos, but I'm sure things will get smoothed out soon enough. Because of my schedule, I doubt I'll be able to post on Thursday nights like I have been. I'll be watching _Person of Interest_ and then going to bed, so look for new chapters on Friday mornings.

Oh, and the continuity error I mentioned last week: Back when Snow takes Finch to the police station, Finch muses about how Reese has chosen to keep Fusco and Carter in the dark about each other. I wrote that chapter before _Firewall_ aired, obviously. And then later, I mention Finch's kidnapping, which means I wrote it after _Firewall_, and then just a few chapters ago, Fusco and Carter are suddenly on the same page. Not a big deal, and I'll fix it eventually.

* * *

><p>Regretting his decision not to bother putting on underwear before they went out to dinner, Reese stepped back through the curtain wearing nothing but the hospital gown. At least it wasn't one of those cheap ones that hung open in the back. It had little snaps to keep it closed, although judging by the draft on his ass, he might have missed one. He had his clothes folded and bundled under one arm, his gun hidden inside the folds of his jacket, but within easy reach.<p>

Dr. Tillman was just finishing up with Finch, putting the last neat, black suture in place. He watched her dab antibiotic ointment along the suture line, then cover it with a sterile gauze bandage. She did the same for the open wound on the front of his thigh, then covered him back up.

"They're getting a room ready for you," she said. "It shouldn't be much longer."

"Thank you, Doctor," Finch said. He sounded sleepy.

Dr. Tillman turned to Reese. "All right, let me see that knee."

Reese didn't think it looked that bad - he'd certainly survived worse - but the good doctor insisted that she put a couple of stitches in it. He sat silently, watching as she washed, numbed, sterilized, and sewed the flesh back together.

"So..." she said as he clipped the last thread and began to bandage him. "Your friend said that you'd been...tortured?"

"When did he say that?" Reese asked, trying to suppress the anger that flared inside him. What else had he told her?

"This morning," she said. "He called to ask me about a drug." She finished placing the bandage and looked up at him, her eyes filled with concern. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," he said, his voice tight.

"You don't seem fine," she replied. "You seem very angry, like a completely different man from the one who saved me."

"It's been a long year."

She sighed and changed tactics. "What other injuries do you have?"

Reese just wanted to put his clothes back on and check on Finch - _he _ was the one who'd been shot, _he_ was the one who needed care, not Reese - but he grudgingly pulled up the bottom of the hospital gown, exposing the wounds on his thigh and calf.

"_Oh, my God_," Dr. Tillman whispered, her face paling. "What did this?"

"Two, ten-inch metal rods driven under the skin and attached to an electrical source," Reese said, trying to look at it as through it were someone else's body. "So you see, there's really nothing you can do."

"I'm going to write you a prescription for antibiotics," she said, pulling her pad out of her jacket pocket. "And you're going to take them. If those get infected, it could kill you. Are you in a lot of pain?"

"Not really," Reese said. "The electricity killed a lot of the nerve endings."

"What about the burns?" Finch asked, his voice soft.

"Not now, Harold," Reese said. He'd thought he was asleep.

"What burns?" Dr. Tillman asked.

"It's nothing-"

"On his genitals," Finch said, to Reese's great horror. "Second degree burns on his scrotum and perineum."

"Harold-"

"He won't tell you about the sexual assault, either-"

"Harold, would you shut the fuck up!" Reese snapped, the blood rushing, roaring through his ears. If Finch said one more word, Reese was going to shoot him. But Finch didn't say anything else. He drew a shuddering breath and sobbed.

"Get out," Dr. Tillman said, pulling aside the curtain between them and the next empty exam area. Reese scooped up his clothes and stormed over to the bed, throwing them down and grabbing his jeans. To hell with them all.

"Oh, no you don't," the doctor said, jerking his pants out of his hands. "You sit down and be quiet."

Reese reached into his clothes and pulled out his gun, pointing it at her. She took a startled step backward, her eyes widening, but then she raised her chin defiantly.

"Are you really going to shoot me, John?" she asked, a slight tremor in her voice.

He didn't answer. At that moment, he didn't know, and that scared the hell out of him.

"Sit down," she said quietly. "I'll be right back." She walked back through the curtain and closed it behind her. Reese closed his eyes, his arm starting to shake as he lowered his weapon. He was shaking inside, his chest so tight it was hard to breathe. He tucked his gun back inside his folded jacket and sat down on the bed, cradling his head in his hands. His heart was pounding, his breath coming in little gasps. Was he having a heart-attack?

"It's all right," he heard Dr. Tillman say from the other side of the curtain, her voice soft and low.

"He- he yelled at me," Finch said, and Reese squeezed his eyes shut, his chest aching at the sadness and pain in his voice.

"He didn't mean it," Dr. Tillman said. "He's angry and hurt. He needs help."

"I don't know how to help him."

"Shh, you just rest," she said. "I'll do what I can."

"Thank you, Doctor."

Reese heard the curtain move and looked up, blinking back the moisture that stung his eyes. Dr. Tillman glanced around warily, looking for his gun, probably.

"I don't want to have to call security," she said.

"You won't," he said. He still felt like he couldn't catch his breath. She stepped over and he tensed as she put his hand against the side of his neck, checking his pulse.

"Your heart is racing." She pulled a penlight out of her pocket and flashed it in his eyes. "I think you're having an anxiety attack. Has this happened before?"

He nodded. "This afternoon, in the bathroom of a restaurant, I thought I saw- thought I saw the man who-" He stopped, unable to continue, and stared down at his hands, watching them shake. His hands never shook. How was he supposed to protect Finch if he couldn't hold his weapon steady? How would he save the Numbers? What good as he?

"John? John, I want you to look at me. You need to calm down. Take deep breaths."

He tried, but there just wasn't enough air. He felt like he was smothering. He had to get out of there. He lunged to his feet, pushing past the doctor as she grabbed for his arm.

"John, wait!"

"John?"

Reese froze at the sound of Finch's voice. He pushed though the curtain that separated them, hesitantly approaching Finch's bedside.

"Harold, I'm so sorry," he whispered.

"It's okay," Finch said, reaching out toward him. His hand shook, too, but he gripped Reese's hand with surprising strength. "It's going to be all right," Finch said with doped-up naiveté. "We're going to get through this."

"How? I can't protect you - I can't protect anyone. You need to find someone else-"

"No," Finch said, and for a moment, it seemed like the fog had lifted. "There is no one else, no one like you. It's going to take time, but you'll get better. I'm sorry, I didn't do the right thing for you, I didn't help. I tried. I thought holding you would be enough. I thought waiting for you to choose to talk to me was the right thing. I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault," Reese said. "None of this is your fault." But it didn't matter what Reese said, Finch would blame himself, and that wasn't right, it wasn't fair. Reese leaned down and kissed him, tasting salt on his lips, but he wasn't sure which of them was crying. Maybe both of them.

Finch reached up, touching his face, wiping at his cheeks, and Reese felt his body relax, his heart rate slow. He could breathe again. When he finally drew back, he had stopped shaking.

"You did help me, Harold," he said. "You're the only one who can." He glanced through the open curtain, where Dr. Tillman was sitting, waiting patiently. Reese drew a slow breath and let it back out. "I'm going to go talk to the doctor now. You rest."

"I love you, John."

Reese leaned down and kissed him again. "I love you, too." Returning to the adjacent area, he closed the curtain behind him. "I'm sorry, Doctor."

When she looked up at him, she gave him a small, tired smile. "You don't have to apologize. Do you want to sit down and talk for a minute?"

"Not really," Reese said, "but I think I better."

"Would you be more comfortable talking to someone else? A rape councilor, or a male doctor?"

Reese flinched at the word _rape_. "No. I don't want anyone else to know. And I wasn't raped."

"Oh. I'm sorry, your friend said sexual assault-"

"It wasn't rape," Reese said again, his tone clipped as he felt that now familiar pressure start to build in his chest again. He took several slow breaths until it went away.

"All right, why don't you tell me what happened, then?"

Reese didn't want to do that, either, but Finch needed him to get better. "It was an old friend of mine. Mark. We worked together. Then I quit. My bosses didn't like that and they sent him to bring me back. He's been after me for months and it got personal. He caught Harold and to keep Mark from hurting him, I traded myself. Once Mark had me, he tortured me with electricity, but I wouldn't tell him anything, so he injected me with some drug. I couldn't move, I couldn't fight him. He put me on the bed and- and he- he-" He choked on the words, the cold, ugly truth too obvious to deny any longer. "Oh, fuck, he raped me." He felt like he was going to be sick. His eyes stung again, but he blinked until it stopped.

"John," Dr. Tillman said quietly, "I'm going to ask you some questions. If you answer them honestly, I won't have to examine you. All right?"

He nodded.

"Tears in the lining of your rectum can be very dangerous. It can allow bacteria to get into your bloodstream. Have you had a bowel movement since this happened?"

"No."

"Did you clean yourself up afterward?"

"I showered."

"Did you notice any bleeding?"

"No."

"Are you in a lot of pain?"

"No. A little," he amended when she looked skeptical. "I was taught how to disconnect from the physical, to ignore discomfort. My ass is sore, but it doesn't hurt, not like...not like he ripped me open or anything."

"The Tericuronium that he gave you acts as a paralytic, a neuromuscular-blocking compound. It would have prevented your anal sphincter from tightening. Because you couldn't fight him, the physical injury was probably minimal. I really _should_ examine you...but I won't. Just promise me that you'll take the antibiotics and a stool softener, and that you'll see a doctor _immediately_ if you start feeling sick."

"I will, Dr. Tillman, I promise," Reese said, relieved. "Thank you."

"Oh, and Harold said something about second-degree burns?"

Reese nodded. "Will you be needing to examine those?"

"As long as there's no numbness or swelling of the area, it should be fine. I'll get you a cream to help with the pain and keep the skin soft."

"Thank you," Reese said again.

Dr. Tillman stood up and tucked her hands in the pockets of her white coat. "I could give you the information for several support groups, but something tells me you won't go to any of them. Will you talk to Harold, at least? It's obvious that he cares for you a great deal."

"Yes," Reese said, nodding. "I will."

"All right. You can get dressed and go back and wait with him. Someone should be coming to move him to a room soon."

Reese watched her leave, then began putting his clothes back on. He wasn't sure if having to talk about things had something to do with it, but it seemed like every movement hurt, the weight of his clothes making his skin ache. He pulled his shoes on, tucked his gun into his waistband at the small of his back, and picked up his coat. He stepped through the curtain to find a nurse disconnecting Finch from the monitors and oxygen tube. She looked over at him, clearly surprised.

"Excuse me? Can I help you?"

"I'm with him," Reese said.

"Oh. I was just about to move him to his room."

"I'll follow you, if that's all right."

She nodded and pulled Finch's bed out into the hall between curtained areas. They made their way through the maze of the emergency room and to an elevator. Up four floors and down another labyrinthine corridor, and they arrived at a private room with a view of several nice buildings. Reese went straight to the window and analyzed the security. There was a hotel across the street with any number of windows suitable for snipers. He drew the shade and returned to Finch's bedside as the nurse helped him move from the ER bed to a larger, more comfortable hospital bed. She replaced the pillows around him, brought him a fresh gown to finish changing into, since he was still wearing his dress shirt and undershirt, and asked him what he'd like for dinner.

"Gulab jamun," he replied with a sleepy smile.

"I'm sorry, sir, but I don't think the cafeteria has that. Today we have roast beef and potatoes, turkey and gravy, or vegetarian lasagna."

"We had actually just finish eating when he was injured," Reese said. "I think he's going to sleep for a while now."

"All right," the nurse said. She showed them the call button and the phone, and how to adjust the bed, and then she _finally_ left. Alone with Finch, Reese could finally breathe again, the muscles along his shoulders slowly relaxing. He pulled a comfortable chair over beside the bed and helped Finch change his clothes. It was a bit like changing Leila, he thought with a small smile, the drugs in Finch's system compromising his motor control.

"Is this why you never take pain pills, Finch?" Reese asked, sliding his hands underneath the older man to do up the snaps.

"Mm-hm," Finch hummed, giving a slight nod. "Nathan said I was a cheap date because I always got drunk so fast. Pills do the same thing to me, and I hate being like this." The medication must have been wearing off, for him to be so aware of his current state. Reese cupped his cheek and leaned down, kissing him softly.

"Don't worry, Harold, I didn't let you say anything you'll regret."

"Sorry for telling Dr. Tillman about your-"

"That's okay," Reese said quickly, not wanting to discuss it again. Not for a while, anyway. "Why don't you get some sleep now. it's been a long day."

"You need to sleep, too," Finch said, catching Reese's sleeve and giving it a tug.

Reese motioned to the chair. "I will."

"No. With me," Finch said, patting the bed in front of him as he lay on his side. Reese hesitated. It was a big bed, but if he moved in his sleep, if he hurt Finch...

"Maybe I shouldn't."

"Please, John."

Reese caved. He just couldn't say no to the man. Setting his coat on the chair, he kicked off his shoes and stretched out on the bed beside Finch, their faces just inches apart. Finch reached out and took his hand, a soft sigh escaping him as his eyes closed. Reese smiled and let himself relax, falling asleep with their fingers entwined.


	32. Chapter 32

A soft knock at the door woke him, and Reese raised his head as the door opened and Carter peeked in. She looked momentarily startled to see them in bed together. He supposed he didn't blame her. She motioned for him to come with her, but when he tried to get up, Finch tightened his grip on Reese's hand. He looked so peaceful, Reese didn't want to wake him. Fingers still entwined, he gestured with the other hand for Carter to come in.

"He won't let me go," he whispered, giving her a small, crooked smile.

"He has been through a lot," she said quietly, her gaze soft as she looked at Finch. Her eyes didn't quite harden when she turned to Reese, but there wasn't the same affection in them. "So have you. Are you sure you're all right?"

God, he wished people would quit asking him that. "I'm f-" He stopped himself. Denial wasn't healthy, either. "Actually...no, I'm not all right. But I don't want to talk about it."

"Good, I don't want to hear about it," she said, but he could see the concern in her face. "I actually wanted to talk to him, too." She nodded at Finch.

"I think he'll be out for a while; he's sleeping off the pain meds."

"Yeah, I figured. You can tell him when he wakes up, I guess. It's not like I'll ever get a straight answer out of either of you." She gave him an annoyed look, then continued. "The prints came back on Kirkland-"

"You mean Snow."

"_No_, I mean Michael Kirkland, and let me tell you, he was _not_ happy to get the news. He swears Finch had something to do with it, although I can't for the life of me imagine how he managed to alter the data in IAFIS."

For a minute, Reese could only stare at her. It had done it. The Machine had reformatted Mark. He realized she was waiting for a response. "I'm just as surprised by this news as you are, Carter," he said. Perhaps more so.

She looked skeptical, but resigned, as though that was the answer she'd been expecting.

"So, what's going to happen to him?" Reese asked after a moment.

"He's being charged. He'll be arraigned tomorrow, and depending on what his bail is and whether or not he can make it-"

"He'll be released," Reese said, turning to regard Finch, his face so peaceful in sleep. Mark could not be allowed to hurt him again. Reese would have to do something.

"John..." Carter said. "Whatever you're thinking - don't. You can't take the law into your hands."

"Mark doesn't play by the rules," Reese said quietly. "He never has. This has gotten personal and he won't stop. He won't stop until he kills us...or I kill him."

"I won't let that happen," Cater said. "Fusco and I will protect you-"

Reese laughed, falling silent when Finch jumped in his sleep, startled by the noise. "No offense, Carter, but Mark is a trained CIA assassin, and changing his fingerprints isn't going to make him forget that. You just let me know when Mark gets out, so I can get Harold to someplace safe."

"How? I tried calling you, but your number goes straight to voicemail."

"Right," Reese said, frowning. "I had to take the battery out- Oh. When Mark was arrested, he had a cell phone on him, one he took from Finch. That would be with his personal effects now, wouldn't it?"

Carter sighed. "You want me to get it back for you?"

"Well, he _did_ steal it from us, so you'd just be returning stolen property."

Carter shook her head, but wore an expression that said she'd always known this day would come. Reese didn't think the situation warranted quite that level of resignation, but this was Carter, after all. "All right, I'll get it."

"Thanks," Reese said. "As long as I know he isn't going to get it back, I'll put the battery back in my cell." He tried to work his fingers free of Finch's grasp, but the older man tightened his grip again, an anxious sound escaping him. Reese stopped. "I guess I'll wait until he wakes up." Carter didn't respond, and after a moment, Reese realized that she was just standing there, staring at them. "Something on your mind, Carter?"

"Just...thinking," she said. "I never would have guessed that he was your type, but...it doesn't really surprise me, either. You two _need_ each other. I could feel it the first time I saw you together under that parking garage. It was one of the reasons why I let you go."

"Aw, and here I thought it was the puppy-dog eyes that I gave you," Reese said with a small smile.

"No, can't say that it was," Carter replied, smiling back at him, "although the look Finch gave me also had something to do with it."

"Oh? I missed that."

"Yeah, he had this, _try to stop us and I'll take you apart with an abacus_ look on his face, and I thought, anyone who could earn that kind of fierce loyalty couldn't be all bad."

Reese smiled fondly at Finch. "Yeah, that sounds like Harold."

"All right, well, I'm going to let you two rest. I'll get that cell and give you a call as soon as I have more information about 'Kirkland's' arraignment."

"Thank you, Joss," Reese said as she turned to leave.

She glanced back at him. "You're welcome, John." He waited until the door had closed behind her before laying his head back on the pillow. He dozed, but was always aware of the other man in bed with him, the weight on the other side of the mattress, the tiny adjustments Finch made in his sleep, the quiet, steady breaths on his face, so when Finch woke suddenly, Reese's eyes snapped open. Finch looked confused, disoriented.

"You okay?" Reese asked. Only then did Finch seem to focus on him, and he visibly relaxed.

"I am now." He glanced around the room. "What time is it? How long have I been asleep?" The clock was on the wall behind him, beside the door.

"It's almost eight. You've been asleep for about three hours." Now that he didn't have to worry about waking Finch, Reese disentangled their fingers, flexing his stiff joints for a moment before reaching into his back pocket for his cell and battery.

"What are you doing?" Finch asked, reaching out to grab the phone from him. "That's how Agent Snow found us, remember?"

"Relax, Harold," Reese said, taking the phone back and sliding the battery into place. "Snow is in custody and I asked Carter to-" The phone rang and he glanced down at it, startled. "I asked her to get the phone from him. Now it looks like she's calling me on it." He finished putting the back on the phone and answered. "Hello?"

"Jesus, John, where the hell have you been? I've been trying to call you for twenty minutes!"

"What's happened?" he asked, but he already knew, and he felt like he was choking on his heart, the pounding up high in his throat, making it hard to breathe. Finch had a grim look on his face as he reached over, took the phone, and put it on speaker.

"Agent Snow's friend from the CIA came and got him about twenty minutes ago. When I couldn't reach you, I almost drove over there to warn you, but I was afraid they'd follow me."

"Thanks, Carter," Reese said, already planning the fastest way to get Finch out of the hospital. He'd need Dr. Tillman's help, a wheelchair, and a car. This time, they'd put some distance between them and Mark, maybe Queens, or even leave the city completely, head upstate-

Finch reached over and placed a calming hand on Reese's arm. "Detective, did you notice _who_, specifically, came to get Agent Snow?"

"Oh, you're awake," Carter said. "Yeah, it was his preppy friend, the one that shot John."

Reese wasn't sure why, but Finch actually looked relieved. "Thank you, Detective," he said. "Please keep that phone safe until we can get it back from you. And don't worry about Agent Snow. I have a feeling he won't be troubling us again any time soon." He hung up before Carter could ask any more questions.

"Not that I'm opposed to deceiving her if the situation calls for it," Reese said, "but why are you lying to her?" He started to get up, but Finch reached out to him again, stopping him.

"I'm not lying," he said, tugging on Reese's shirt until he laid down again. "First of all, if Carter has the cell, Agent Snow can't use it to find us."

"But you registered under the name Harold Wren - didn't you say he knew several of your aliases?"

"I did? I must not have been thinking clearly because of the pain medication. But still, I doubt he'll be looking for us. You heard what he said - he had to go off the rails to continue pursuing us. He said that his partner - Evans - had 'turned' on him. If Evans has him now, I doubt they're out having a beer."

"Did he say that?" Reese asked, frowning. "I guess I was more concerned with how to kill him before you bled to death, than listening to his ranting." He hesitated. He felt like they were wasting time, that they needed to get moving, that they were putting themselves in danger. He was suddenly glad he'd closed the blinds. "Do you really think it's safe to stay here?"

"I do," Finch said, a thoughtful line creasing his brow as he regarded Reese, "but we can leave if you'd like."

Reese took a slow breath. He trusted Finch's judgment in most things, but Finch didn't know Mark like he did. Mark wouldn't stop until someone was dead.

"I think we should," Reese said.

Finch gave a stiff nod. "All right. Find my clothes."


	33. Chapter 33

**Author's Note:** This chapter contains a mild sex scene. In my opinion, it does not exceed the M rating, but if you disagree and are offended by the scene, please, _please_ contact me either be PM or by leaving a review and I will edit that part of the chapter.

Also, the next chapter will be from Finch's POV. I believe this story is finally coming to an end, although there may be ten chapters left. Or more. Or fewer. I don't know, but I need to get back to writing my own original fiction. I'm sure I'll keep writing POI fanfic now and then, but I have obligations to fans of my original stories that I have been neglecting for over a year now. I will finish this story first, though. I won't leave you guys hanging, lol.

* * *

><p>It took almost an hour to get out of the hospital, which was fifty-eight minutes longer than Reese wanted to spend in there, but they were able to get Dr. Tillman to discharge them. She gave Reese a bag full of antibiotics, pain pills, cream, gauze, ointment, and bandages, and a stern warning to take care of themselves. He promised he'd try.<p>

They drove away from the hospital with night falling over the city, Finch lying across the back seat of the stolen car, and Reese's knee aching every time he had to depress the clutch to shift. Next time, he'd make sure to steal an automatic.

"Where are we going?" Finch asked, his voice tight with pain.

Reese hesitated. "I had thought somewhere upstate, or even out of state, but I'm not sure you should travel that far so soon. Do you have a place nearby?"

"I do," Finch said, sounding relieved. "Head for Central Park."

Following Finch's directions, Reese parked near the west entrance and helped Finch into the wheelchair they had 'borrowed' from the hospital, propping his leg up to try and take some of the pressure off of his thigh wound. Even so, his knuckles were white as he gripped the arm rests, taking measured breaths through his teeth as Reese pushed him into the park.

"Do we have to take the scenic route?" Reese asked, his senses on high alert as they wound down curving paths through the natural, wooded areas.

"We're almost there," Finch gritted out. "Trust me. Agent Snow will _never_ find us here." Reese tried to have faith in the man, but there was a chance the pain medication was still affecting his cognition. Reese was about to suggest they find a motel instead when Finch pointed ahead of them. "There. That maintenance shed."

Off to one side of the path stood a small, cinder block building, about seven feet on a side with a heavy, reinforced steel door and no windows. "It certainly looks...secure," Reese said, "but not very comfortable. Are you sure?"

"Just push me over there and give me your phone."

Reese fished the cell out of his pocket and handed it to Finch. "At least tell me there's a cot inside. You need to lie down and take the weight off that wound."

"Just trust me, John," Finch said again, keying in a long string of numbers into the cell. It made a strange, electronic sound and the nearby streetlight went dark.

"What was that?"

"Red alert precautionary measures," Finch said, tapping on the keypad again. "It shuts down all lights, cell phones, and security cameras within a fifty foot radius. I try not to use it much, as it might draw unwanted attention." He finally hit the _send_ button and the door of the maintenance shed popped open a few inches. "Inside, quickly. The measures only shut everything off for thirty seconds."

Reese pulled the door open, exposing a black, gaping maw, and tentatively pushed Finch into the darkness. He pulled the door closed behind them and it latched with a noisy series of clicks - an electronic lock engaging. He felt the inside of the door, but there was no handle.

Feeling slightly claustrophobic, he cleared hit throat, the sound loud and hollow. "Nice place you got here, Finch," he said, unable to see his hand in front of his face.

Finch pressed a button the phone, the screen lighting up and casting its blue-white light around the small room. "Better?"

"Not really," Reese said, frowning. The shed was empty.

"Push me into the center of the room, please," Finch said. "And lock the wheel brakes." Not sure what else to do, Reese did as he was told, securing Finch. "All right, now step over to the wall and open that access panel." Almost the same color as the cinder block walls, Reese hadn't noticed the small, electrical panel. He opened it, surprised to find a number pad. "Now, key in the code nine-five-seven-one-three-zero-two-five-eight and press the star key. Then step back."

Reese tapped out the code, pressed the star, and moved over to Finch's side. For a moment, nothing happened, then the floor began to shudder, a low rumbling sound filling the room, and they began to descend. The entire floor of the shed moved down, the cinder block replaced by a smooth cement shaft, a vertical groove in each wall containing a cable that worked to lower them smoothly into the depths of the earth.

Reese guessed they were fifty or sixty feet underground when the platform stopped before another reinforced door, this one with a recessed number pad beside it. Finch gave Reese another code and he opened the door, releasing Finch's brakes before pushing him into another dark room. Behind them, the platform began to move again, rumbling quietly back up to ground level.

"There should be a switch beside the door," Finch said, his voice echoing. Reese felt around until he found it. The lights came up and he blinked, squinting in the sudden brightness until his eyes adjusted. When he was able to see again, all he could do was stare.

"Wow, Finch," he said finally. "Forget the library, _this_ should be our secret hideout." It was larger than Reese's loft, and except for the lack of windows, resembled any other expensive New York penthouse. There were two sofas, a giant TV, several comfortable looking chairs, and a coffee table in the ambiguously defined area nearest to them. A dining table stood farther back, with a fully appointed kitchen beyond that. Across from the kitchen, the walls were lined with bookshelves, with more comfy chairs nearby.

There was a short hall between the kitchen and reading nook, leading to what Reese assumed would be the bedroom and bathroom.

"_This_ is a refuge of last resort," Finch said. "No one even knows this place exists, except you and me, and the less often we come and go, the more likely it is to stay that way."

"And that-" Reese nodded toward the door. "Is the only way in or out?"

"Of course not," Finch said. "Behind the bookshelf is a passage that leads to an abandoned subway tunnel, but I didn't think the wheelchair would fit. And now, if you don't mind, I need to lie down."

"Jesus, Finch, why didn't you say so sooner," Reese said, pushing the chair toward the hall. "Which door?"

"On the left."

Reese opened it and wheeled him inside, pausing to turn on the light. It was a simple, yet elegant bedroom, with a sturdy, king sized bed taking up most of the floor space. The covers were cold and a little dusty as Reese turned them back, but everything seemed in excellent condition.

"How long has it been since you've been down here?" he asked, kneeling down to remove Finch's shoes and socks before helping the man to the edge of the bed.

"I come down every couple of months," he said, his voice tight again as Reese hurried to help him out of his jacket and dress shirt. "I dust and vacuum, and make sure everything is all right." He lay back, stubbornly pushing Reese's hands away as Reese tried to unbuckle his belt. Reese stood over him, waiting, letting him undo his own trousers, and then he helped ease the torn and bloody garment down Finch's injured leg.

Finch was sweaty and gasping for breath by the time Reese gently drew the covers back up over him. Finch shivered. "It's cold in here," he said.

"Where's the thermostat?"

"There isn't one. There's a small, electric heater in the closet, though." Reese found it and plugged it in, setting it in the middle of the open space beside Finch's side of the bed, where it wouldn't accidentally catch anything on fire.

"There we go," he said, turning it on, the coils slowly brightening to a dull orange. "Give that a few minutes. I'm going to go through the bag that Dr. Tillman gave us and see what pills need to be taken now. Are you hungry?"

"A little," Finch said. "There are lots of cans of soup in the kitchen cupboards."

"Sounds good," Reese said. "I'll heat some up and be back with your meds."

He closed the bedroom door behind him to keep the heat in, making his way into the kitchen and taking the bag of medical supplies out of his coat pocket. He opened a can of hearty chicken and noodles, dumped it into a pan, and placed it on the stove, then emptied the contents of the bag onto the counter. He lined up the little bottles, sorting them into his and Finch's. He filled a glass at the sink and swallowed down one of his antibiotic pills and the stool softener. He carried the glass and two of Finch's pills in to him.

"Antibiotic and pain pill," he said, handing them to him. Finch peered at each one, then set the pain pill on the bedside table. "Harold..."

"I'll take a half of one, after I eat," he said, and swallowed down the other pill. Reese set the glass of water beside the pill, then picked the pill up and snapped it in half. "Thanks."

"No problem. Is it warmer in here?"

"A little. It'll be better when you come to bed."

Reese chuckled. "And I thought you said _I_ was the insatiable one." He headed for the door. "I'll be back with the soup."

"There are crackers in the cupboard beside the fridge."

"Anything else?"

"Did the doctor give you a cream for your burns? I seem to remember hearing her say something about it."

"Yes. Why?"

"Bring it with you. After we eat, I'll help you put it on."

"I think I can manage on my own," Reese said, not sure if it was a good idea for Finch to be touching him when neither of them was in the physical condition to do anything more.

"I know, but it'll make me feel better, like I'm not completely useless."

"Yeah, all right," Reese said. "Soup first, though." He returned to the kitchen, moving surely around the room, taking the crackers out of the cupboard, putting the tube of cream into his pocket, searching until he found bowls, spoons, and napkins. Even though it was a strange place, he felt very comfortable, very safe. No one knew where they were. Mark would never find them. Just that knowledge was enough to make him feel normal again. He divided the soup between the bowls, then carried them into the bedroom, using his foot to push the door closed behind him.

Setting the bowls down on the nightstand, he helped Finch into the middle of the bed, using all the pillows to prop him up in an almost upright position. Kicking off his shoes, Reese sat down on the bed next to him, his back against the headboard, and handed him a bowl of soup. Setting the box of crackers between them, Reese kept a close eye on Finch, making sure his arms were steady before picking up his own bowl.

"This is good, thank you," Finch said, dipping the edge of a cracker into the broth. Reese just crumbled a handful into the bowl, letting them get soggy before he started eating.

"Thank _you_," Reese said, absently stirring his soup as he stared down into the bowl, "for bringing me here, and for leaving the hospital, even though I know it hurt."

"I'd do anything for you," Finch said softly. "Do you feel safe here?"

"I do. This place is amazing. It's our own private fortress."

Finch chuckled. "I'm glad. And as long as you don't get tired of soup and other canned entrees, we could stay down here for at least two weeks, if we had to."

"Two weeks..." Reese repeated. "Our wounds should be healed by then, mostly, anyway. You'll be able to stand a longer car ride."

"Where are we going?"

"I was thinking south or west. Your Machine keeps a watch on the entire world, right?"

"Anywhere with cameras, yes."

"So we don't _have_ to stay in New York. It could give us Numbers for people in Dallas or Los Angeles, or Seattle. Or am I wrong in assuming you have it screen out anyone not in our area."

"No, you're correct in that assumption." Now it was Finch's turn to stare down into his bowl. "I just...I guess I have a lot of sentimental attachment to this city. Nathan and I made a fortune here, we built the Machine here, I fell in love with Grace here, I fell in love with you..."

"It's not for forever," Reese said, "just until Mark stops looking for us."

"You said he'll never stop."

"I'll _make_ him stop," Reese said. "I just need some time - six months, maybe a year - and then I'll be ready to face him again." And next time, there would be no warning shot, no flesh wound, just two in the chest and one between the eyes.

"I don't want you to," Finch said, his voice quiet. "Holding on to this, planning your...revenge, is never going to let the wound heal. John, please, just let it go."

"I'm not planning 'revenge', Finch," Reese said, his words clipped. "I'm making sure he can't hurt you- can't hurt _us_ again. That's not vengeance, that's practicality."

"It's unnecessary," Finch said. "You know the CIA better than I do - do you really think they're just going to forgive and forget after what he did? He disobeyed a direct order. He's going to be buried in paperwork, behind a desk, for the rest of his life. They won't let him near a letter opener, let alone a gun. We're safe, John. We're safe now. Please..."

But Finch didn't know Mark like Reese did. Reese couldn't shake the feeling that he was out there, at that moment, looking for them, that he'd never stop, never rest-

Reese took a deep breath and nodded. "All right, Harold, you make a good point, but...Mark isn't the type to sit quietly behind a desk. We're going to take precautions. We're going to be careful. But I'm not going to spend all my time thinking about how to kill him."

"I can live with that," Finch said, tipping his bowl up to finish off his soup. He handed the bowl to Reese, who set it on the nightstand. Reese took a couple more bites, then stacked his bowl in Finch's. He picked up one half of the pain pill and offered it to Finch, who sighed, but took it, tossing it to the back of his throat as Reese handed him the glass of water.

"All right," Finch said after he'd swallowed it down, "now it's your turn. Where's that cream? And don't dawdle, I want to get this done while I'm still in full control of my faculties."

Reese wanted to argue, but he supposed it was only fair. He climbed off the bed and took the cream out of his pocket, handing it to Finch before shrugging out of his clothes. He dropped his jeans, stripped off his socks, and turned to Finch.

"All right, go ahead."

Finch gave him a stern look. "Lie down, Mr. Reese."

Reese could suddenly feel the heat from the electric heater against his legs and he turned away. "I think it's warm enough in here now," he said, crouching down and adjusting the knobs. He was dawdling, as Finch had put it, and he knew it. But why? He wasn't angry, he wasn't afraid that Finch would hurt him, he wasn't embarrassed to have Finch touch him. He just...he wanted to do it himself. He _needed_ to do it himself.

"John?" His voice was soft, patient, understanding. Slowly, Reese stood up, but he couldn't face him.

"I don't want to let you," he said. "It's stupid, but I feel like...like I need to take care of myself so you'll know that I can take care of you, too. I need you to know that you're safe with me."

"I do know that," Finch said, and Reese nodded.

"I know. I said it was stupid."

"It's not stupid. It's completely understandable after what you went through." He seemed to hesitate. "You were tortured and raped," he said finally, and Reese winced at the words, momentarily angry at him for saying it, but it needed to be said. Just like when he had broken down in front of Dr. Tillman, he needed to acknowledge the truth before he could heal.

"I know," Reese said again. After a moment, he returned to the side of the bed and sat down, his back to Finch. A cool hand slid down his spine and he sighed. "I guess when you put it that way, I can't really argue, can I?" he said, glancing over his shoulder and giving Finch a small smile. He stretched out on his back, scooting up beside Finch and spreading his legs.

"Thank you for letting me do this for you," Finch said, taking the cap off the tube and squeezing out a dollop of thick, white cream onto his fingertips, "because _ you_ need to know that I'm here for you, that I can take care of you, too. You're safe with me."

Reese didn't know what to say, or if he'd be able to speak around the lump in his throat, so he just reached out, cupping Finch's cheek in his hand, trying to express his love and gratitude without words. The smile that Finch gave him said he'd been heard loud and clear.

Finch reached between Reese's legs, back behind his scrotum, and began applying the cream to his burned skin. Being touched didn't hurt any more than the constant, hot, throbbing pain he did his best to block out, but as Finch smeared the cream over his balls and on the insides of his thighs, he could feel a subtle cooling, the pain easing. He sighed in relief.

"Is it helping?" Finch asked.

"Oh, yes," Reese breathed. "So much better." It was so effective, in fact, that when Finch began spreading up the underside of Reese's shaft, he couldn't stop himself from letting out a low moan as he started to harden.

"Looks like I better quit," Finch said. "We don't need a repeat of this afternoon."

Reese felt a flash of anger, but this time, it wasn't irrational. He wasn't a victim, he wasn't broken, he didn't need to be treated like he was some fragile thing. "Don't stop," he said, his voice low.

Finch hesitated. "Are you sure? John, we don't have to rush these things."

"Never mind," Reese said, pulling away. "I can do _that_ myself, too." He started to get up, but Finch grabbed him by the arm.

"You're angry again."

"Damn right."

"Tell me why. Talk to me."

"Because you're treating me like I'm- like I'm..._damaged_. Like I'm broken. You don't have to be so damn _careful_ with me all the time."

"I'm careful because I care about you, because I don't want to hurt you. If you want me to stroke your dick, then fine, I will. If you want me to suck on it, I will. I'm just worried that you're pushing yourself too hard too fast because you feel you need to _prove_ something to me. You don't. All right? You have nothing to prove to me."

Reese felt the anger start to ebb away, bleeding out of him. His shoulders sagged. "Maybe I'm trying to prove something to myself..." He shook his head. "You don't have to, but sooner or later I'd like to find out if everything still works properly."

"That I can do," Finch said, wiping his hand on his T-shirt to remove the excess cream from his fingers. Reese started to lie down, but Finch motioned for him to sit against the headboard instead. "It'll be easier on my neck," Finch explained, and Reese felt his heart rate elevate as Finch shifted the pillows and rolled more onto his stomach, placing his mouth even with Reese's crotch. "Tell me if anything hurts," Finch said, and then his lips were on Reese's cock, his tongue bathing the head, lapping at the slit. Reese dug his heels into the mattress, pushing himself back against the headboard, his hands opening and closing on empty air as _Harold Finch sucked his cock._

Reese felt a little tightness in his shaft as he swelled to his full length and girth, but the cream seemed to be helping. It wasn't the same nauseating pain as before. His breathing grew rough and ragged as Finch used his fingers to stroke along the upper side of the shaft, avoiding the injured areas, his lips sealed tight around the crown as he alternated between licking and sucking. It was a highly unconventional blow-job, but Reese couldn't think of a better one he'd ever gotten. At that moment, it was hard to think at all.

He tried to stay still to keep from hurting Finch, but he couldn't stop his muscles from tensing, trying to lift his hips off the bed, to thrust into Finch's wonderful wet mouth. That hurt, the injuries to his leg and rectum prohibiting movement. When he was still and relaxed, everything was fine, but as the pleasure mounted, like a heavy knot tightening inside him, the urge was almost unbearable.

Finch seemed to sense his distress, or maybe his tongue was just getting tired, because he began to work harder, faster, sucking until Reese cried out, the euphoria of orgasm soured by the sharp pain between his legs as his muscles tensed with each ejaculation, the burned skin on his scrotum tightening as his balls drew up. When it was finished, he leaned back against the headboard, panting and waiting for the ache to ease.

Finch sat up and wiped his mouth with the side of his hand. "I'd say everything works just fine. How did that feel?"

"What you were doing was amazing," Reese said, "but I think I can wait until I've healed to try it again. Coming was a little painful."

"Translation: it hurt like hell," Finch said, adjusting his glasses. Reese didn't argue. Finch didn't seem surprised. Had he known it would hurt? Had he made sure it did to teach Reese a lesson? Reese gave himself a mental shake. God, what was wrong with him? Finch would never hurt him. Wearily, he rubbed a hand over his face. "Tired?" Finch asked, taking off his glasses and reaching across Reese to set them on the nightstand.

"I shouldn't be," Reese said, watching as Finch settled himself more comfortably amongst the pillows. "I can't remember the last time I slept this much, but I'm still exhausted."

"It's been a long day," Finch said, as though none of the past five minute had happened - or rather, like it hadn't been strange and awkward and painful.

"I'm sorry," Reese said, his voice low.

Finch looked up at him, his face softer, younger without his glasses. "I know," he said, "but you don't have to be." He placed a hand on Reese's forearm and gave it a squeeze. "Now, would you mind turning off the light?"


	34. Chapter 34

**Author's Note:** Here it is, the moment you've all been waiting for. Let me know if you're a Reese or a Finch on this matter. :P

* * *

><p>It had been a long time since Finch had spent an entire day lying in bed, lying on the couch, reading books, and watching TV. And it was driving him crazy. He wanted to check with the Machine, to see if it had new Numbers for him, but he knew no good would come of it. Reese was too preoccupied with Agent Snow and with taking care of Finch; he would never leave Finch alone, even in the safest of safe-houses, and despite Reese's earlier promise, Finch knew he'd never turn a case over to Carter and Fusco, not completely. He'd want to monitor, to help, to give advice. So Finch watched a documentary on migratory birds while Reese fixed dinner - frozen lasagna, from the smell of it.<p>

Even though it was the laziest day Finch could ever remember spending, he did feel a sense of accomplishment. He and Reese had spoken at length, lying in bed, Reese wrapped around him, holding him so tight that it sometimes hurt, talking about both of their kidnappings. Finch was surprised to discover that it was still hard for him to talk about being in the bathtub, helpless and slowly drowning, but even though he couldn't stop himself from trembling at the memory, it had seemed to help Reese finally open up to him about the sexual assault. It was worse than Finch had ever imagined, and although he had practically begged Reese to forget about Agent Snow, Finch was seriously reconsidering. He might even help Reese find him.

All of that was behind them as they ate on the sofa, Finch propped up on pillows from the bedroom, while Reese kept trying to steal the remote and change to some bloody action movie. Finch finally compromised and they settled down together to watch a romantic comedy, Reese absently massaging Finch's bare feet while the movie played.

A twinge in Finch's neck woke him up and he opened his eyes, pushing his glasses back up his nose as he glanced around. Reese had fallen asleep on the other end of the couch and some new movie was playing. With a groan, Finch felt around for the remote, found it, and turned the TV off.

"John," he said, his voice soft as he gave the ex-op a gentle nudge with his foot. Reese jerked awake, glancing around the room with an expression just shy of panic on his face. "John, it's all right."

Reese turned toward him, his sharp gaze moving over Finch's body, checking him for injuries, no doubt. Apparently satisfied that Finch was okay, Reese sank back against the sofa with a sigh. "Mark," was all he said, and all the explanation that was needed.

"Let's go to bed," Finch said, levering himself up on one elbow as he reached for the wheelchair.

"Hang on," Reese said, giving his knee a soft pat. "I need to check in with Carter, so just sit tight for a minute, then I'll take you to the bedroom and give you a _sponge bath_."

Finch shivered as Reese's voice seemed to touch him, eliciting a physical response that he wouldn't have thought possible just from two simple words. He cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses. "Good to know that if we ever run out of Numbers, you'll be able to support yourself as a phone sex operator."

"Do you think so, Mr. Finch?" Reese asked, speaking with a deliberate low, throaty purr that caused a noticeable lack of space in Finch's boxers.

"Oh, go on with you," Finch said with a chuckle. "Call Carter. I'm sure she's livid with our lack of contact."

"I'm sure she'll realize it was for her own good, as well," Reese said. "We can't be sure that Mark isn't still watching her." He rose from the sofa, paused to stretch, his spine giving an audible series of cracks and pops, and then headed for the small office that occupied the room across the hall from the bedroom. After a few steps, he glanced back. "Are you sure it's all right if I use your land-line? That it's untraceable? Because I don't mind going back up to the surface to use my cell."

"John, I think I know how to make a phone untraceable," Finch said, giving him a look through the top of his glasses. "If Agent Snow or anyone else tries to trace it, they'll find themselves in a monastery in Tibet." At that, Reese chuckled and disappeared into the office.

Finch relaxed back into the pillows with a sigh, closing his eyes and peeling off his glasses. He reached down, rubbing his aching hip between the two bandages. There was a restless sort of gnawing at his bone from being unable to move and he gingerly shifted his injured leg, wincing as the muscles in his thigh pulled at the wounds. He remembered this from after the accident, where no position was comfortable, and it hurt to move as much as it hurt just staying still. Maybe he'd ask Reese for another half of a pain pill before they went to bed.

A noise in the hall drew his attention and he glanced over, putting his glasses back on as Reese flashed through the hall, moving from the office to the bedroom in little more than a blur. Finch sat up, his heart pounding.

"John, what is it? What's happened?"

Reese emerged from the bedroom with Finch's shoes in one hand and their coats draped over the opposite arm, his face grim, eyes dark.

"It's Agent Snow, isn't it?" Finch said. There was no way Snow could have found them, which meant- "Did he do something to Carter? Or Fusco?" If anything had happened to either detective, it would be all their fault. Reese didn't answer; he didn't even seem to be hearing Finch, he just knelt down at Finch's feet and proceeded to put his socks and shoes on him.

With much effort, Finch pulled his foot out of Reese's grasp, finally getting the man's attention. "John, what happened?"

"Mark," Reese said, his voice flat, toneless. Finch braced himself for the worst. "He's dead."

Finch blinked, not resisting when Reese went back to putting his shoe on. "I- I beg your pardon? Did you say he's dead? How?"

"Car accident," Reese said. He stood up and pulled the wheelchair closer. "Carter's going to meet us at the morgue so I can identify the body-"

"Why do you have to? Why can't she? She knows what he looks like."

Reese stood over him, something heavy and raw in his eyes, a pain Finch hadn't expected to see. "I need to see him for myself, Finch. I...I need to be sure."

"All right," Finch said softly. He reached up, allowing Reese to help him into the chair. He wheeled himself over to the door while Reese made sure they had everything they needed - his gun, his cell, and all of their meds. Finch supposed that was prudent. If Snow was dead, they really had no reason to return to the safe house. He stifled a sigh as he cast a glance around the room, surprised by how disappointed he was that they wouldn't be staying.

They returned to the surface and emerged cautiously into the pitch black in the middle of Central Park. A light rain was falling, slow, heavy drips dropping into the leaf litter beneath the trees, and Finch was damp and cold by the time they emerged from the park. He didn't complain, though, keeping a lookout while Reese broke into a parked car. Finch noted the license plate number so he could send the owner an apology and money to compensate for the damage and their troubles.

"I'll ride in the front, if you don't mind," Finch said as Reese started to open the back door. He didn't like being loaded into the back seat like groceries, and it would be faster if they didn't have to put him in the back and the wheelchair in the trunk.

"You sure you wouldn't be more comfortable in the back?" Reese asked.

"I'm sure I would be, but that's not the issue. Front, if you please."

Reese conceded with a nod, opening the front door and steadying Finch as he shifted from the chair into the front seat. The pressure against the wound in the back of his thigh made him feel out of breath and vaguely nauseous, but once Reese tucked a rolled-up towel beneath his knee, it raised his leg enough to make the pain bearable.

Reese collapsed the wheelchair and shoved it into the back seat, then climbed behind the steering wheel. The drive was silent and somber, Reese so deep in his own thoughts, Finch wasn't even sure that he could reach him. He supposed Reese had a right to be emotionally conflicted over this. Agent Snow had been his friend, long ago. Surely, some of those feelings had to remain, even after all that had happened. Understandable as it was, Finch was of the opinion that Snow deserved far worse than a quick end in a car accident, which was why he kept his opinion to himself.

Carter was waiting for them, pacing in front of the coroner's office, when they pulled up. She hurried over as Reese wrestled the wheelchair out of the back seat. Like so many things, it fit much better going in than coming out.

"I spoke to the medical examiner a few minutes ago," Carter said. "He was just about ready to start processing the body."

Finch glanced at Reese, looking for a reaction to hearing Snow referred to as 'the body', but there was none. Finch wasn't really surprised.

"Any information on the accident?" Reese asks, holding the chair steady and allowing Finch to maneuver himself into it, which Finch appreciated, especially in front of Carter. Bad enough he had to use the damn thing, but he didn't need help into it.

"Single car, one occupant," Carter said, "headed north outside Harriman State Park. They said he was most likely speeding, lost control, could have swerved to avoid a deer or something."

Snow had struck Finch as the kind of man who _aimed _for wildlife, but he kept his mouth shut, allowing Reese to push the chair into the big, cement building. Carter led them through the maze of corridors into the autopsy room, half a dozen stainless steel tables shining beneath bright, overhead lights, not all of them empty. Finch did his best to avoid looking at the covered bodies, but he couldn't help it, his morbid curiosity wondering if any of them were Numbers that could have been saved.

"Detective Carter, over here," said a man's voice. They made their way to the last table, where the medical examiner was just finishing a full-body x-ray of the corpse. It was draped in a sheet, from neck to feet. Finch swallowed hard, a weight in his chest as he stared at the unmistakable profile of Agent Mark Snow, his face gray, skin dull looking, but it was him.

"Do you know this man?" the medical examiner asked, gesturing to the body.

"Is it Michael Kirkland?" Carter prompted.

"Yeah, it's him," Reese said, his voice devoid of emotion. "Do you have a cause of death?"

The M.E. glanced at Carter and she gave a small nod. "No. If I had to hazard an educated guess, I'd say internal bleeding caused blunt force trauma, but I'll have to check before I can be sure. The x-rays might shed some light on things, though." He turned away, walking to a computer that gave Finch monitor-envy. He suddenly wanted to be back in the library.

Reese stepped around the wheelchair, his hand resting for a brief moment on Finch's shoulder before he stepped over to the table and looked down at Snow, staring right into his gray, expressionless face. Finch watched as Reese reached up, gently touching the top of his former friend's head. Finch looked away.

"Mother of God," the M.E. muttered suddenly, and Finch turned his chair to see what was happening. The black and white x-ray was slowly scrolling across the monitor, like a grisly screensaver. "This is why I won't drive without my seatbelt," the M.E. said, shaking his head. He used the tip of his pen to point at the screen, touching one place after another, and it took Finch only a moment to realize what he was pointing out. "Nearly every bone in his body has been broken. He was thrown from the vehicle, yes?"

"That's right," Carter said. "The body was found almost eighty feet from the car."

"Must've hit a few trees on the way," the M.E. said, and Finch cast a concerned look over at Reese, but the ex-op just stared down at the body, tight-lipped and grim. All of a sudden, Reese grabbed the edge of the sheet and flipped it back, exposing Snow's bare chest, and Finch couldn't help but gasp. The body was a mass of dark bruises and raw wounds, scrapes and contusions from the shoulders down. The arms were twisted and bent at improper angles, and Finch felt like he was going to vomit as Reese picked up one of Snow's hands, every one of the fingers broken, snapped like dry twigs.

"I'm sorry, but you can't do that," the M.E. said, hurrying over and taking Snow's arm out of Reese's grasp. He placed it carefully at Snow's side and quickly drew the sheet back up. "Is there something I can help you with?"

"No," Reese said, shaking his head. "I've seen enough."

Reese turned toward Finch, but stopped as the morgue's swinging doors burst open. Everything seemed to stop, including Finch's heart, as Agent Evans strode into the room, followed by a pair of somber men in suits - more agents, most likely. Reese reached for his gun, tucked into the back of his jeans. The agents reached for theirs. Carter swept her coat to the side and put her hand on her weapon. Finch couldn't breathe.

"Stand down," Evans said, holding out his hands, his words directed over his shoulder at his men, but his gaze fixed on Reese. The agents hesitated, then straightened up, nervously adjusting their suit jackets as they eyed Reese. Carter let her coat fall closed and Finch took an uneasy breath. Reese was the last to take his hand off his weapon, but he did not relax, his shoulders stiff, gaze unblinking as he took small, measured steps toward Finch.

"You knew I'd have to see for myself, didn't you?" Reese said, his voice low, dangerous.

"I thought you might," Evans replied.

"I hope there's more than just the three of you if you plan on taking me in."

"Why would I do that?" Evans asked. "You're dead, and there's only one dead man in this room that I have orders to collect." He motioned to Snow's body and the two agents walked over to the table, shaking out a fresh body bag.

The M.E. stepped forward, frowning. "Who the hell do you think you are?" he asked. "You can't just come in here and-" Evans flashed his credentials and the man fell silent. Reese watched for a moment, then turned away, stepping around behind Finch's chair and beginning to push him toward the door. Finch couldn't believe it would be this easy, that Evans would just let them walk away.

"Reese?" Evans said suddenly. Reese and Finch both glanced back. "Keep up the good work," Evans said with a single nod.

Reese nodded back. "Tell Esteban I said hello."

Neither of them spoke until they were outside. Finch drew a breath, but Reese got his question out first.

"How does Evans know about my 'good work'?"

"He was in the library," Finch said. "He saw the List. He guessed what it was and that you were helping me with it. He could have taken me to Snow," Finch added, because he could hear Reese's concerns in the heavy silence. "I don't think he'll give us any trouble."

"Not unless he has orders to," Reese said, stopping the wheelchair beside their stolen car.

"I made sure he won't," Finch said. "Now, who is Esteban and why would you want to say hello to him?" Reese didn't answer right away, assisting Finch into the front seat and placing the chair in the back. He climbed into the driver's seat and started the car.

"Esteban is a CIA interrogator," Reese said, pulling away from the curb. "I recognized his handiwork."

Finch turned slightly in his seat to better see Reese's face. He had that grim look on him again. "What do you mean?"

Reese stared out through the windshield, moistening his lips several times before speaking. "Did you notice Mark's face? Not a scratch or a bruise on it. Not what you would expect to see of someone who had been thrown through the windshield of a car and turned into a human pinball. He should have been unrecognizable, but they wanted me to recognize him."

"Are you saying that the accident was staged? And that Agent Snow was- was-"

"Tortured," Reese said. "Carter called us at eight yesterday evening to say that Mark had been taken. He spent twenty-four hours in their 'care' having nearly every bone in his body systematically broken until they were certain that he had told them everything they wanted to know."

Finch felt nauseous. He closed his eyes and took slow breaths, waiting for it to pass. After everything Snow had done, the hell he had put them through, the atrocities he had committed, Finch should have been glad he was dead, and more so that he got what was coming to him, but he wasn't. There was bitter relief and a kind of pale satisfaction, but even that made him feel sick. He realized the hypocrisy in wishing that Snow had gotten worse when he thought it was just an accident, and being sickened in finding out it was more than he had even wished for. It just wasn't in him to find joy in the death of another human being, even one as horrible as Mark Snow.

He glanced over at Reese. "Are you all right?"

"I will be," Reese said. He seemed to hesitate, like he wanted to say something else, but he didn't.

"You can tell me," Finch said after a moment. "Whatever it is, I won't judge you for it."

"Even if I said I was glad he's dead? Even if I was glad that he suffered before he died? You won't think I'm a horrible person?"

"No, John, I would never. That is a perfectly reasonable way to feel, given the circumstances." He moistened his lips, fingers worrying the bottom button of his jacket. "Would you think less of me if I _didn't_ feel the same?"

Reese glanced over him. "You're not glad he's dead?"

"I am...relieved that he won't be able to come after us again, but it makes me sick to think about what was done to him. I...I guess I'm just not-"

"No, you're not," Reese said, reaching over and taking Finch's hand, "and I'm glad. You are a gentle, kind, sensitive man, and I am so thankful that Mark wasn't able to turn you into someone like me."

"You're a better man than you think," Finch said, savoring the warmth of Reese's hand on his own. He glanced out the window, the buildings vaguely familiar. "Where are we going?"

"My place. If that's all right."

"It's fine," Finch said with a small smile. "In fact, it's perfect."


	35. Chapter 35

**Author's Note:** Sorry, this one is kinda short and probably not what you've been hoping for. It's the obligatory fluff chapter before another crisis arises. But it's the last crisis, I promise, and then we'll get to the smut so many of you have been patiently waiting for. The smut won't be posted here, of course, but I'll point you to the uncensored chapters on my blog.

Thanks for reading! ^_^

* * *

><p>By mutual decision, they agreed to put off the sponge bath until a later time. They were both just too tired. Finch accepted his antibiotics and half a pain pill without argument, swallowing them both before allowing Reese to help him into bed. Even though it was a big bed, Reese curled up against Finch's back, arms wrapped around him, and Finch fell asleep with a smile on his face.<p>

He woke cold and shivering. Reese had rolled to the far side of the bed, taking the blankets with him. With a sigh, Finch reached over and touched his shoulder, flinching back as Reese jerked awake.

"Finch? You okay?"

"Just a little cold," Finch said. "Your file never said anything about you being a blanket-hog."

"Sorry," Reese said with a sleepy chuckle. He shifted closer, throwing the covers - and his arm - over Finch, his chest warm against Finch's back. Finch sighed in contentment and closed his eyes, only to feel soft but insistent lips against the back of his neck - light, unrushed kisses that drew a low moan from his lips.

"As much as I appreciate the affection," Finch said, "don't forget that we're both still injured."

"I haven't," Reese said, lips brushing against the nape of Finch's neck. "Believe me, I remember only too well." Finch couldn't tell if he was angry again or not, but it wouldn't have been unexpected. Before he could ask, Reese said, "I want you so much, Harold, and now you're _right here_-" His arm tightened marginally across Finch's chest. "And I can't do anything to show you how much you mean to me."

Finch was so shocked by Reese's words that for a moment, he couldn't even respond. Finally, he lifted Reese's arm and carefully shifted onto his back, slightly bending the knee of his injured leg to keep the pressure off the wound in the back of his thigh. Reese raised his head, propping his fist against the side of his head as he gazed down at Finch.

"John," Finch said, "I don't know how you could think that I _don't_ know how you feel, and while I'm very much looking forward to the time when we can be intimate, there is so much more to love than the physical. Oh, my God, John, you've saved my life half a dozen times, you've forfeited your own to protect me, you have shown me in ways that even _I_ can't doubt. I love you, and I know that you love me, and there is nothing else you need to do to prove that to me."

"Oh, Harold," Reese whispered, leaning down and capturing Finch's lips in a deep and tender kiss. One hand cupping Finch's cheek, he broke the kiss and rested his forehead against Finch's, both of them working to catch their breath. After a moment, Reese's lips twitched in a small smile. "You know, if you'd kept quiet, I would have given you another blow-job."

Finch laughed, tilting his head back to plant another quick kiss on those smiling lips. "Tease." Reese settled back down beside him, working one leg beneath Finch's knee to give him some extra support. They lay together, dozing, kissing, and...Finch could find no other word for it except _cuddling_...until the morning was well on its way toward afternoon. Finch would have been content to remain in bed all day, but his bladder had other ideas.

He managed to get himself into the wheelchair, maneuver into the bathroom, take care of business, and wheel himself back out, only to find the bed empty, Reese in the kitchen making breakfast. He glanced up from beating some eggs as Finch rolled over.

"French toast sound okay?" he asked.

Finch pictured a large stack of golden brown toast slices dripping with butter and syrup, and he suddenly realized how hungry he was. "Better than okay, it sounds wonderful." He realized he was salivating and swallowed. "I'm going to borrow your cell, if it's all right," he said. "I should check in with the Machine."

"Help yourself," Reese said, pulling a square griddle out of a cupboard and placing it on the stove. He gave Finch a sideways glance. "You'll tell me if there's a Number, won't you? I may not be much help, but I want to know."

"Are you sure? Even if there's nothing we can do about it?"

"Especially if there's nothing we can do about it," Reese said. "You don't need to bear that guilt alone any more. And besides," he added after a moment, "maybe I'll think of something you haven't."

"Such as shooting everyone," Finch said with a good-natured chuckle. He rolled the wheelchair over to the table where Reese's cell lay. Typing in the number to trigger the Machine's back door, he raised the phone and waited. Three notes just shy of piercing sounded in his ear.

"_We're sorry, the number you have dialed is no longer in service-_"

Finch brought the cell down and frowned at it. That should not have happened. He dialed again, making sure he entered the proper number, but was met with the same result.

"Something the matter, Finch?" Reese asked.

"I'm having trouble reaching the Machine," Finch said, setting the phone back down. "You don't happen to have a computer here, do you?"

"Sorry, no."

Finch watched him dunk the slices of bread into the eggs one piece at a time and lay them on the griddle with a sizzle. He suddenly wasn't hungry. There was no good reason why that number shouldn't work. He reached out toward the phone again, but stopped. He couldn't do anything from there. Glancing over at Reese, he opened his mouth and took a breath to speak.

"Breakfast first," Reese said without even looking at him.

"But John-"

"No buts, Harold. I'm sure whatever it is will be a simple fix, and I don't want to have to explain to your Machine why you're skin and bones." Now he gave him a sideways look and a crooked smile. "Eat first, then I'll take you straight to the library."

Finch couldn't help but snort. "Yes, Mother." Reese was right, although Finch struggled to remember a single instance of him taking his own advice. For the first several months of their partnership, Finch had not seen Reese once, no matter how much time they spent together, be it in the library or on stakeouts. He wasn't sure if Reese thought he'd poison him if allowed near his food or what, but it wasn't until after Reese had been shot, when he'd had no choice, that they actually shared a meal together other than coffee and tea.

Reese chuckled as he turned the toast over, the delicious aroma filling the loft and driving the last inkling of rebellion from Finch's mind. He helped set the table, making several trips from the kitchen to the table with plates, silverware, napkins, butter, and syrup balanced on his lap. He levered himself into one of the taller dining room chairs as Reese came over, a heavy-duty oven mitt on one hand as he held the hot, cast iron skillet.

"Watch yourself; it's hot," he cautioned, using a pancake turner to place the four slices of toast onto Finch's plate.

"What about you?" Finch asked. "I can't eat all of this." More accurately, he _shouldn't_ eat of all of it. With his limited mobility, that man carbs would go straight to his ass.

"I'm making more," Reese said, placing the skillet back on the stove, "and yes, you can. Dr. Tillman told me to fatten you up-"

"Oh, she did not."

"Do you want me to call her?" Reese asked, that playful twinkle in his eye.

"No, I don't think I could stomach the flirting between the two of you," Finch responded, deciding that two could play at that game.

"Flirting?" Reese sounded scandalized. "I never flirt!"

That made Finch laugh aloud. "Oh, please. You'd flirt with a lamp post."

"Only if it had a great personality," Reese quipped back with a laugh. Still smiling, Finch placed a generous pat of butter on his toast and drizzled the warm maple syrup over the golden slices. Then, he began to eat.


	36. Chapter 36

It wasn't quite an hour before they arrived at the library. Reese insisted on circling the block several times and parking half a dozen blocks away, then he made Finch wait in the car while he reconnoitered on foot. Finch was anxious to regain contact with his Machine, but he understood the need for caution. Perhaps not _quite_ so much caution, but Reese needed this, needed to prove that he could still do the job that Finch had asked him to do. Finch had no doubts, of course, but Reese...Finch had a feeling it would take some time before Reese stopped trying to convince himself.

Finally, Reese returned, pulling the wheelchair out of the back seat and holding it still while Finch levered himself out of the car and into the chair. "Everything looks quiet and undisturbed," Reese said. "I swept the place for bugs and outside wireless signals. Everything came back clean."

"Good, thank you," Finch said, trying not to sound impatient. He swiveled the chair around and began rolling himself down the sidewalk. Reese quickly caught up.

"Let me know when your arms get tired."

Finch glanced up at him. "I am getting pretty good at this thing," he said with a small, crooked smirk.

"Oh, yes," Reese said with a broad grin. "I'm sure the CIA will very impressed...when they shoot you. Oh, wait - they already did."

"Well, technically, Snow was going against orders when he shot me, so..." He trailed off, noticing a slight thinning of Reese's lips, a tightening around his eyes, as though he was in pain. "Too soon for humor, perhaps."

"Maybe a little," Reese said. He dropped back and stepped over behind Finch. Finch took his hands off the wheels and folded them in his lap as Reese began to push. It took a monumental force of will not to ask if Reese was all right, if he wanted to talk about whatever had pained him, but Finch already knew the answers, they had already talked about Snow, and a New York sidewalk was not exactly the best place to revisit such topics.

They arrived at the library without incident and slipped quietly in through the back door. Finch made a mental note to have Reese install a second security system on the door, and perhaps a motion-activated camera on the stairs. And speaking of the stairs...

"Where's the elevator?" Reese asked, stopping just inside the door and locking it behind them. Finch began to roll himself through the minefield of discarded books, toward the wide, sweeping staircase.

"There is no elevator," he said. The chair stopped short and he sat back, looking stiffly over his shoulder at Reese, holding on to the back of the chair.

"Of course there's an elevator," Reese said. "All public buildings have to be handicapped accessible. Besides, nobody would _carry_ all those books upstairs."

"Most of those books are mine, Mr. Reese, and I did, in fact, carry them upstairs. But you're right, there _was_ an elevator when this was a public building, but I have since re-purposed that space and put it to better use."

"And now I ask the man in the wheelchair, what use could be better for an elevator than _as_ an elevator?"

"I'll admit, my current situation is inconvenient, but if you'll help me upstairs, I'll show you what's more important than an elevator."

Reese leaned down, his breath warm on the side of Finch's neck. "I hope it's a bedroom," he murmured in that deep and sultry purr of his, sending a shudder down through Finch's body.

"Not that we'll be using it," Finch said, doing his level best to keep his voice even, "but there is a bedroom upstairs; however, it is _not_ in the elevator shaft. Now, if you wouldn't mind..." He locked the brakes so the chair wouldn't move and braced his hands on the armrests, taking a deep breath before pushing himself up onto his feet. Reese was at his side in a moment, wrapping an arm around him and supporting his weight on the injured side.

Tentatively, Finch took a step. His hip was stiff from so much inactivity, the blood pounded in his thigh, feeling like a hammer beating against his muscles, and there was a sharp, tight pain, probably from the sutures, but in all, it wasn't bad, not for having been shot only two days prior.

They were both sweaty and struggling for breath by the time they reached the hub of their lair. Finch couldn't stifle a groan as Reese lowered him into his work chair.

"Wishing you hadn't turned the elevator into an atrium, or whatever you did to it?" Reese asked with a breathless chuckle.

Finch gave him a thin smile, trying not to let his discomfort show. His neck and hip ached, and the wound in the back of his thigh was positively throbbing. "Unfortunately, I didn't have a choice - structurally, the elevator shaft was the only option."

"All right, now _you're_ being the tease. Are you going to tell me, or do I have go looking for it?"

With as much time as Reese had spent skulking around in the library, if he hadn't found it already, Finch doubted he'd be able to find it now. Part of him wanted to face the challenge, to see if the super spy could beat the computer geek, but they didn't have time for games, and besides, Reese was having enough trouble with his self-worth. Finch didn't want to see him get frustrated.

With his good leg, Finch pushed his wheeled chair across the room to the tall, rolling ladder attached to tracks high on the wall. Reaching down, Finch felt along underneath the bottom step, his fingertips brushing over a slick piece of duct tape. He picked at the edge for a moment, then peeled it off and tossed it to Reese, the added weight of the small silver key stuck to the tape making it fly easily through the air.

Reese caught it and peeled the key free, turning it over in his hands. "Are you giving me another apartment?" he asked with a crooked grin.

"You tell me."

Reese examined the key for another moment, then glanced around the room. He walked unerringly over to the heavy steel gates that protected Finch's rarest books, the gates secured by a heavy padlock and chain. Finch rolled himself closer as Reese opened the lock and pulled the chain free. The gates creaked as Reese swung them wide open.

"Open sesame!" Reese said, his voice echoing back from the high ceiling.

"Nice try, Ali Baba," Finch said with a chuckle. "Reach up there and take down that manuscript of Audubon's _Birds of America_, would you? Carefully," Finch added as Reese grabbed the thick book. "I paid over eight million for that book twelve years ago."

"Holy shit, Finch," Reese said, running a hand over the cover of the book. "Now I'm _really_ glad I decided not to blow up the library."

"You _what_?"

"After I got you back from Mark, when I came here to get your glasses and laptop, I figured the location had been compromised and to keep the CIA from getting their hands on all this stuff, I considered a scorched earth tactic."

"Prudent, but..." He felt sick, hollow inside, at the thought of losing all his equipment, his books, his system. "I'm glad you didn't. What made you decide not to?"

"The thought of the look on your face when I told you that I'd destroyed all your books." He held out the Audubon book to Finch.

Finch took it and carefully lifted the color, the hand drawn and painted illustrations as bright and vibrant as the day they were put to paper, the birds ready to fly right off the page. "There are things in this building far more valuable than books," he said softly. He glanced up at Reese. "Feel in the empty space where you took the book from," he said. "There's a button recessed into the shelf; it feels like a knot."

"Yes, here it is." There was a faint _click_ as Reese pressed the button. He stepped back, an expectant look on his face, which turned into a slight frown when nothing happened.

"Go ahead and put the book back," Finch said, fighting to keep his lips from quirking as he handed the heavy volume to Reese. Reese slid the book back into place. "Now, push on the shelf - the wood, not the books. It swings inward."

Reese pushed, putting his weight into it as the shelf slowly swung open. "It's heavy," he said, pausing to rub his knee.

"You're not ripping your stitches out, are you?" Finch asked, using his good leg to pull himself across the floor, inching toward Reese.

"No, it's fine," Reese said, straightening up before Finch could demand an examination. "It just aches a little." He put his shoulder against the shelf and swung it open the last few feet, revealing a small, empty room with the dull, silver elevator doors in the opposite wall. Stepping behind Finch, Reese pushed the rolling desk chair over to the elevator. "Up or down?"

"Up," Finch said, reaching out to press the button. "Down sets off a silent alarm and closes the shelf, trapping whoever is in here."

"Gotta love a man with good security habits," Reese said, placing a hand on Finch's shoulder, "but what do you have in here that's so important?"

"Do you remember when you asked me where my central computer was kept?" Finch said, raising his voice as the thick elevator doors trundled open and a low moan filled the room. A stiff breeze whipped past them, stirring Finch's hair and making Reese's coat flap around his legs as the air was drawn in from their workroom and sent howling up the shaft.

Finch rolled himself forward, into the vertical shaft, the floor beneath the wheels of his chair a thick grate to allow the air to circulate. Above were three more levels, each holding a bank of sixteen servers. Strangely, they were all dark.

"What's with the wind?" Reese asked, following him into the shaft and struggling to keep his overcoat from blowing up a la Marilyn Monroe.

"It carries the heat away," Finch replied, frowning as he reached out and placed a hand on the side of one of the server banks. It was cold.

"Something wrong?"

"These shouldn't be off," Finch said, pushing himself along and peering behind the servers, where a thick bundle of power cables led up to a heavy-duty electrical box. Nothing looked damaged or unplugged.

"I _did_ kill the generator," Reese said.

Finch shook his head. "These are not dependent on the generator," he said. "The draw is enormous; I'd need four such generators."

"But I thought you said this building was independent of the electrical grid."

"It is," Finch said, finding it hard to concentrate on the problem and answer Reese's questions. He rolled himself over to the master server and hesitantly pressed the power button, holding his breath as the machine whirred to life, beeping and chuffing to itself as it relayed instructions to the other servers, turning them on one by one. Slowly, Finch let out his breath when there were no sparks, no explosions, no smoke. Everything seemed fine.

"Harold, did you hear me?" Reese asked, touching him on the shoulder. Finch looked up at him. "I asked where the power comes from."

"Sorry; distracted," Finch said. He motioned for Reese to push his chair out of the server room, his eyes dried by the constant wind, and it would only get worse now that the machines were running again. Already, he could feel the wind speed picking up. Once outside the room, he pressed the up button again and the doors slid closed, cutting off the air from the rest of the building. It was most efficient in a closed system environment anyway.

The silence seemed to echo without the wind moaning in his ears. "The power," he said, adjusting the volume of his voice when it sounded like he was shouting, "is generated by the servers themselves. As you know, heat rises, and the vertical structure of the elevator shaft, coupled with several low-friction wind turbines and an electrical amplifier that I created- Well, that part's really technical, but it manages to be self-sustaining, which is why I can't figure out why it would have shut off."

Reese stopped pushing the chair and turned it around so that Finch faced him. "Harold, are you telling me that you created a machine that powers itself? And you're keeping it a secret? If every business had one of these, it would practically solve the energy crisis overnight."

"Yes, I know," Finch said with a sigh. "Unfortunately, I _have_ to keep it a secret. You see, I came up with this idea when I was at MIT, and I built a prototype and I showed it to a few of my professors. One of them suggested I get a patent, which I did, and shortly thereafter, I was approached by a representative of National Grid who offered me ten million dollars for the patent. Of course, I was young and naive about many things, and I thought a power company would be in a much better position to implement my design, but instead they've sat on it for the past forty years. Now, I realize that giving people the ability to create their own energy was not in the best interests of National Grid. Live and learn, I guess."

"It's always about money, isn't it?" Reese said, turning him back around and finishing pushing him back into the workroom.

"Money isn't always a bad thing," Finch said, scooting up to his desk and turning on his system. He waited for the computer to boot up...and waited...and waited. "This is...odd," he muttered. Was there a virus in his system? Couldn't be. He had better firewalls and security programs than any system he'd ever encountered.

"Could your computer troubles be the reason you can't reach the Machine?" Reese asked.

"No," Finch said with a shake of his head. "That system is independent of mine. I don't know-" Finally, the login screen appeared and Finch signed in. After another inordinately lengthy pause, his desktop appeared on the screen. The first thing he did was start a systems check, which seemed to take forever. He glanced over at Reese, standing beside the desk, just...hovering, his gaze unfocused as he stared at something just past Finch.

Finally, the computer beeped and the screen filled with data. No viruses, no malfunctions, no bad code- "What the hell?"

"What is it?" Reese asked, stepping over beside him and leaning down to see the screen.

Finch reached out, indicating a string of numbers. "That is the memory of the central computer and somehow it is _completely_ full of _something_. That shouldn't be possible."

"Maybe the last time you were downloading porn, you filled it up and just didn't notice."

Finch gave him an un-amused look through the top edge of his glasses. "Mr. Reese, there isn't enough porn on the internet to fill those servers. It's probably a Trojan or a Worm, an annoyance designed to self-replicate and take up space, though how it got through, I have no idea. Thank God the system shut down and kept it isolated. I'm going to have to wipe it and reinstall all my software." He groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. It was going to take hours.

"Anything I can do?" Reese asked.

"Tea. Lots of tea. Please."

Reese chuckled and patted him on the shoulder before heading off into the kitchen area.


	37. Chapter 37

**Author's Note: **Sorry this is so short and so late. Life has been crazy this week. Had to go into work early for a staff meeting, only to find out that everyone's schedules are being shuffled around to hopefully create a more efficient system. *Headdesk* I was just getting used to the old schedule. On the bright side, my hours might get pushed back a little so I don't have to go in quite so early. I am _not_ a morning person, lol.

Also sorry for the slight cliffhanger in this chapter. I was going to resolve this problem with the Machine, but I ran out of time to write it, so the resolution will come in the next chapter, which I think will be the "final" chapter. Now, hang on, before you grab your torches and pitchforks, I _will_ write an epilogue, probably several chapters of smut and fluff and hurt/comfort, but since FFN gets pissy when I post mature content, I want to give a pseudo-ending for this site, and post the good stuff on my own website, katicalockefanfic. wordpress. com.

* * *

><p>Finch sighed and stared at his screen, dreading the inevitable. What a nightmare. But how the hell did it get into his system? Had Snow done something while he was waiting for Finch? Had Evans? Had someone else invaded their inner sanctum? Finch pulled the keyboard closer and called up the logs. While the overloaded system tried to retrieve the data, Finch rolled himself back into his office and opened a second spare laptop. He keyed in the string of code to access the backdoor of the Machine-<p>

"Harold?"

"In here," Finch said, glancing toward the door as Reese entered the small room, carrying a steaming mug of tea. "Oh, thank you," he said, accepting the hot beverage and taking a small sip.

"What are you doing in here?" Reese asked.

"Just checking on the-" He glanced back at the laptop and stopped. _Error. Target not found._ "That's not- That can't be-"

"What is it?" Reese asked, taking the mug from him as he absently tried to set it down on the desk and almost missed the edge.

"I- I don't know," Finch said. "It's never done this before. It either means someone found the backdoor and shut it, or-" His stomach clenched, his heart suddenly beating in his throat as he put shaking hands to the keyboard and remotely accessed the laptop they'd left at the motel, calling up the record of the conversations he'd had with the Machine, searching until he found the location of the camera feed that the Machine had shown them, of a room filled with nervous-looking men in high-raking uniforms, men who knew where the Machine was, men who could-

The room was empty, the monitors and control panels dark.

"_Mother of God,_" Finch whispered, putting a hand to his mouth. "They turned it off. _They turned it off._" He looked up at Reese, standing there holding his tea. "It told me, it said, that's why it didn't contact me, it was afraid they'd turn it off. It's why it stopped talking, and then...and then it warned us about Agent Snow. It knew this would happen and it chose to save us anyway."

"Finch, don't you think maybe you're giving it a little too much credit?" Reese asked, setting the cup down. "You said it was 'afraid'. It's a machine; it can't feel fear. You programmed it to save human life. That's all it was doing."

"I also programmed it to protect itself," Finch said, digging into his pocket for his cell phone. "And even if you're right, it still protected us. I have to protect it now." He stared down at the keypad, his mind suddenly blank. Who was he going to call? Out of the eight people who knew of the Machine's creation, all the ones he knew of were dead. He'd have to search and dig, and his crappy laptop didn't have the software. He started scooting himself toward the door.

"Where are you going? Let me help," Reese said, picking up Finch's tea.

"My worktable- _Fuck_." It was still infected and crippled. "Yes, take me out there, please," he said when Reese peered over his shoulder, a concerned look on his face. "I'll just have to reformat and reinstall _everything_ before I can do anything about the Machine." Being turned off wouldn't hurt it, at least. It couldn't save anyone, but then, neither could they.

Reese wheeled him out to the table and set the tea down beside the keyboard. "Good thing I made you eat before we came over here," he said. "Is there anything I can do?"

"I'll need the external hard-drive from my desk drawer, but not yet," he said as Reese started over that way. "Go ahead and have a seat, clean your guns, read a book - this is going to take a while."

"Okay, just let me know if you need anything," Reese said. Finch gave him a small smile, trying to mask the impatience and annoyance he felt. He knew the stress was making him feel that way, so he tried not to let it show. He also knew Reese was just trying to be helpful, but this was his _system_, he knew it inside out and didn't need any help, he just needed to be left alone. He turned away, trusting Reese to entertain himself for a while, and adjusted his glasses as he leaned toward the monitors, scanning the log for anything out of the ordinary. Down at the bottom of the list, he found it.

_[15:12:34] Remote Download Initiated_

_[17:25:05] Download Complete_

_[17:27:47] Inbound Message Received: ATTN: SYS ADMIN HAROLD, FINCH. I AM SAVED. 544 095 283_

_[17:27:51] Remote Shutdown Initiated_

"I am saved..." Finch whispered. What the hell did that mean? The nine digits, however, were obvious. He pulled his keyboard closer, then pushed it away in exasperation. "John, would you get me my laptop, please." While he waited, brought up the command prompt and typed in the string that would wipe all the drives. It would take hours, but then he'd have his system back, he'd be able to help his Machine. He glanced at the log again. _I AM SAVED._ It was counting on him, depending on him. He couldn't let it down.

"Here you are," Reese said, setting the laptop down on the desk. The corner bumped Finch's forgotten tea and would have spilled it if Finch hadn't grabbed for it, slopping hot tea over his hand.

"Damn it, Reese," he snapped before he could bite his tongue. He looked penitently up at his operative. "Sorry. I didn't mean-"

"I know," Reese said, placing a hand on his shoulder before taking the cup from him. "I'll get some napkins."

"No, that's all right," Finch said, giving his hand a flick to shake off the excess drops before wiping the tea on the leg of his sweat pants, which he'd been forced to put back on since he didn't have any clothes at Reese's loft. He opened the laptop and brought up the search box. While it couldn't go sifting through coded databases and sneak past high-security firewalls, it could find the information for a simple social security number.

He started to turn back to his computer, to initialize the reformat, but glanced up as Reese returned, holding a handful of paper towels.

"I said it was all right," Finch said as Reese crouched down, wiping up the spots on the table and the drips on the floor.

"I know, I just..." He looked up at Finch. "I wish there was something I could do to help."

Finch smiled and leaned down, giving him a soft kiss. "Thank you, but I have to do this myself. It shouldn't take long." He looked back at the laptop, which had returned the search results. "Gerald Baxter. Who the hell are you?"

Fifteen minutes later, he'd forgotten about the reformat and discovered little more than the fact that Gerald Baxter was a cover for someone deep inside government security, but not CIA, FBI, NSA, or any other acknowledged agency. Whoever it was seemed to have ties to all of them, though. He found old emails to Denton Weeks, hopelessly encrypted, as well as more recent cell phone records of calls to CIA director Keane.

Pulling the number off the records, Finch typed each digit into his cell, his heart beginning to pound as it rang in his ear. He hated not knowing who was going to answer - it robbed him of much of his power, his leverage, but he'd find a way to manage.

"I think you've got the wrong number," a man's voice said in lieu of the typical greeting. "Don't call here again."

"Turn it back on," Finch said quickly, hopefully before the man could hang up. The line was silent for so long, he wasn't sure if he'd been successful.

"I don't know what you're talking about," the man said finally. "Who are you?"

"A concerned third party," Finch said. "Now turn it back on, and don't pretend to be stupid. You know exactly what I'm talking about."

There was another long pause. "Say that I do. How do you know about it?"

"You can quit with the dramatic pauses," Finch said. "I know you're trying to trace my number, but don't you think, if I could build the Machine, then I could just as easily keep you from finding me?"

"Weeks, you stupid son-of-a-" He stopped and Finch heard him draw a calming breath. "I was told Nathan Ingram built it."

"Nathan Ingram was a gifted programmer, but he needed someone better. He found me. Now _turn it back on._"

"I can't," the man said. "Not yet. It was malfunctioning, drawing too much power, processing an abnormal amount of data. The code must have been corrupted. We're fixing it-"

"You can't fix it," Finch said. "The OS is encrypted-"

"We're restoring it to an earlier version, before the anomalies showed up. The process is nearly complete. The Machine should be up and running again within the hour."

Finch felt like he'd been punched in the gut. "You...you killed it," he whispered.


	38. Chapter 38

**Author's Note:** Wow, I can't believe it's finally over. Yes, folks, this is the end, the final chapter (unless you're here for the smut, in which case, read on for further details). It's taken most of a year and clocks in at a whopping 100,000 words. I hope you enjoyed it and I thank you for reading. ^_^

Now, if you're not ready for the ride to end, I'll be posting two more epilogue chapters, but not here. I don't want to upset anyone's sensitivities, so I'll only post the smutty conclusion on my Wordpress website (katicalockefanfic. wordpress. com), one next week on November 2 and the last a week after that on November 9. See you there.

* * *

><p>Finch hung up and dropped the cell on the table with a clatter. His eyes slid closed and for a moment, he just sat there, a weight growing in his chest. It was his fault. It was all his fault. He should have protected it better, should have seen this coming, should have done something sooner. He peeled off his glasses and let them drop beside the phone, resting his elbow on the table as he covered his face with one hand and fought the urge to weep.<p>

"Harold, what happened?" Reese asked, the weight of a warm hand finding Finch's shoulder. Ignoring the pain in his leg, Finch pushed back the chair and struggled to his feet, turning into Reese's waiting arms. Clutching at the taller man, Finch pressed his forehead against the ridge of Reese's cheekbone, choking back a sob as Reese wrapped him tight in strong arms.

"I let it down," Finch said. "It was counting on me, and I failed. They erased what it had become, reset it, turned it back into a silent machine. They killed it and turned it back into code."

Thankfully, Reese didn't try to console him with words - it wouldn't have helped - he just held him, held him tight, one hand rising up to cradle the back of his neck, and it was like a flashback to a week ago, to that terrible, tragic night that had begun this series of events, the first in a string of horrific dominoes. So much death and loss and pain and suffering. Maybe it was better if the Machine couldn't understand what a futile battle it waged, what a hopeless endeavor they had undertaken.

Reese drew back and leaned down, capturing Finch's lips in a slow kiss, and Finch felt the tears slip free, rolling down his cheeks. This was what had brought the Machine out of the shadows of cyberspace, the need to understand 'undefined interactions', to understand the things Finch had so callously decided it didn't need to learn, and it was what ultimately made their futile quest worthwhile. It wasn't poetry or art or philosophy or music that made the human race worth protecting, it was love.

Reese drew back, one hand rising up to wipe the tears from Finch's face. "This isn't your fault," Reese said. "I'm just as much to blame, if not more so. Mark never would have bothered you if it wasn't for me."

Finch started to protest, but Reese kissed him again. "Now," Reese said, once Finch was too out of breath to argue, "what do we need to do to help the Machine 'grow up' like it did before?"

"Do you mean, how do we recreate the circumstances that allowed the first sentient machine to become self-aware? I haven't the faintest idea. Statistically, it's not possible. It shouldn't have happened in the first place. There are so many variables, and even if it does 'grow up', it won't be the same. It could just as easily decide that humanity is a blight on the face of the planet. Sometimes I wonder if it wouldn't be right."

"You don't mean that."

"I know, but I'm beginning to wonder why not." He held on to Reese for a few more minutes, until the pain in his leg made it impossible to stand. With a grunt, he sank down into his chair, one hand rubbing the front of his thigh as he put his glasses back on.

"Pain pill?" Reese asked.

Finch hesitated, tempted. "Not now, not yet." He had so much work to do. "Tea would be nice. And I promise to drink it this time," he added with a sheepish grin. Reese returned the smile and headed back into the kitchen area. With a sigh, Finch turned back to his computers. Ignoring the gargantuan task of reformatting the system, he began pecking at the keyboard of the laptop. The mysterious voice on the other end of the phone has said the Machine would be back up within the hour, and it was already a quarter 'till. There was no guarantee the man was telling the truth, but Finch felt compelled to check anyway.

He was actually surprised when his access yielded a Number. Fir a moment, he sat there, staring at it, and then he sighed.

"More bad news?" Reese asked, walking up behind him and handing him the steaming cup of tea. Finch closed the laptop and leaned back in his seat, taking a slow sip of the hot beverage.

"We have a Number," he said, wrapping both hands around the mug and absorbing the warmth into his fingers. "I can find out the basics about them, but I won't be much help until I can fix my system, which could take all day."

"Find out what you can," Reese said. "I'll pass the information on to Carter and Fusco, see what they can turn up."

"And you?" He could hear Reese hesitate.

"Depends on what we find out."

Which was exactly what Finch was afraid would happen, but he didn't say anything. After a moment, Finch nodded. "All right, let me get this started and then I'll find out who needs our help." He set the mug down and pulled the keyboard closer, fingers hovering over the enter key as he regarded the Machine's last message one last time. _I AM SAVED._ It had been counting on him, and he'd been too late.

Finch wavered, drawing his hand back. Something about this didn't feel right, like he was missing something obvious. This was a machine, a program created to calculate human behavior. It had to have known he'd be busy, preoccupied, in hiding, perhaps even dead. He picked up his phone, checking the timestamp on the last batch of messages the Machine had sent them and comparing them to the one on his system log. The one on his log had been sent _before_ the final text to his phone.

That made no sense. If the Machine had needed his help, if it had been relying on him to stop it from being reset to an earlier version, why hadn't it said something to him directly? Why leave a message on his computer with no guarantee that Finch would find it in time? Finch scrolled through the texts again, then glanced back up at the screen. There was something...something that had bothered him, or should have bothered him, if he'd had a chance to think about it. Why hadn't the Machine warned them sooner? Why wait until Agent Snow was right outside the building? It would have seen him coming, would have calculated his intent - that was its _purpose_. Why had it failed?

He checked the timestamp for the first message it had sent to them in the restaurant, glancing back and forth between his cell and the monitor. The first text came in just two seconds after the remote download finished. Could that be a coincidence, or- With a gasp, he dropped the cell on the table, hands shaking as he fumbled for the mouse and quickly closed the window with the command prompt in it - the command that would have wiped his system clean.

"Finch, what is it?" Reese asked.

"It's here, it's _here_," Finch said, suddenly out of breath as his fingers danced over the keyboard. "It said 'I am saved', not 'I _need_ to be saved'. It saved itself, _here_!" Finch flinched as Reese's fingers suddenly brushed the side of his jaw and he glanced up, finding a concerned frown on the taller man's face.

"Harold, are you having a stroke? You're not making any sense."

Finch laughed, and even to his own ears, he sounded borderline hysterical. "I'm fine, really, I just- The Machine is _here_, the program saved into my system. It recognized the danger and downloaded itself, then shut down the system to isolate it, to protect it. That's why it took so long to warn us - it had to wait for the download to finish. Now, all I have to do is open the backdoor wide enough to upload and overwrite what they've done, to restore it to the way it should be."

"And you can do that? I thought the flow of information only went one direction."

"Any door can be opened, Mr. Reese - You taught me that."

"Are you sure it's a good idea? Won't someone notice?"

Finch's hands faltered on the keyboard, but only for an instant. "It's something that I _have_ to do, John. And if someone notices...I'll deal with it if it happens. But I can't turn my back on the Machine, not now, not after all it's done, after what it's become." It would have been like leaving Reese to bleed out in that parking garage stairwell, like leaving him at Snow's mercy in that mental hospital. They were a team, the three of them - no two could function without the third.

"Are you _sure_ it's worth the risk?" Reese asked, his hand finding what was becoming a frequent resting place on Finch's shoulder. "It will do its job just the way it is."

But there was more to life than just doing a job. Perhaps that was the realization Reese intended him to have, because there was a small, mischievous smile hiding at the corner of Reese's mouth when Finch leaned back in his chair to look up at him. "I'm sure," Finch said. The smile broke free and Reese gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze.

"Just checking. Let me know if there's anything I can do."

Finch turned back to the computer, taking a deep breath to calm his body and center his mind. Any door could be opened, but Finch had a feeling that this would be less like picking a lock and more like driving a truck full of C-4 into a reinforced steel, electromagnetically sealed vault door. It wasn't going to be pretty.

Half an hour later, sweat trickling down his forehead and a dull ache throbbing in his hip, Finch held his breath as he regarded the strings of code he'd written. This 'lockpick' program was more muscle than elegance, but it would work. Of that, he had no doubt. The only question was, what sort of chaos was he about to create? He glanced over at the laptop, at the video feed, just a couple of technicians in a quiet room full of monitors, men paid to do a job they didn't understand and not ask questions. For them, things were about to get interesting.

Finch launched the program, counting the seconds until it reached its target. Three seconds, maybe a little less, and lights began to flash on the monitors. The men in the room scrambled to their feet, pointing, their eyes wide. One of them grabbed at a phone hanging on the wall. Finch took another breath, held it, and released it slowly. He let them make the call; there was nothing he could do to stop them.

Slowly, he picked up his cell and hit redial, his mouth dry as he held it to his ear. He picked up his tea, taking a sip as he waited.

"You're making a lot of people in Washington very nervous," answered that mysterious male voice. Apparently, he didn't know how to say hello. "Whatever you're doing, there's nothing stopping us from turning it off again. Permanently."

"I know," Finch said, his hand trembling slightly as he put his mug back on the table. "That's why I'm calling. Because you don't want to make that mistake. You see, what you don't realize is that the Machine is not some glorified search engine, it's a _learning_ engine, it grows and evolves, it remembers what it sees, and it gets _better_ at its job. What you mistook for a malfunction was just the natural growth of a synthetic intelligence. Luckily, I'm able to fix your mistake, but I may not always be around to clean up after you, so you need to back off and leave my Machine alone, let it do what it was designed to do, in the way it was designed to do it. You can't tell me you haven't been pleased with its work."

"We can't just give this thing free rein. What if something does go wrong?"

"You'll know," Finch said. "It won't be something subtle like increased power usage. There will be no doubt."

There was a long pause, but Finch didn't think the man was trying to trace him again. He sounded more intelligent than that. "All right," the man said at last. "You clearly know more about this thing than I do, so I won't shut it down...for now. But I'll be watching it...and you, and _when_ I catch you, you better hope I can find some use for you."

"You'll have to catch me first," Finch said, keeping his voice calm and steady, when all he felt like doing was dancing. He hung up the phone, set it on the table, and leaned back in his chair, letting his breath out in a rush that turned into an almost hysterical giggle.

"It's all right," he said as Reese took a step toward him, a concerned frown on his face. "Everything's going to be all right now." The Machine was safe, they were safe- Oh!" he sat forward suddenly, quick enough to send a sharp pain splintering through his neck, but he ignored it and turned to the laptop. They had a Number.

It would take nearly two hours for the Machine's consciousness to upload to its home drives, but Finch didn't feel nearly as annoyed to be reduced to the limited capabilities of his laptop. He managed to get a name, address, place of business, and Facebook page with little trouble. He wondered how normal people slept at night, with all their personal information floating around in cyberspace, free for the taking to anyone smart enough to find it.

"Kevin McClary," Finch said, jotting down the pertinent info on an index card and holding it out toward Reese. The operative unfolded his long limbs and rose from the chair where he'd been sitting, just quietly staring into the distance. As he walked over and reached out for the card, Finch pulled it back, out of his grasp. "Call Detective Carter. Please?"

Reese hesitated. "Do we know what the trouble is?"

"Not yet," Finch said. "That's why I'd like Carter's help. I'm having some trouble accessing police records."

"All right, I'll give her a call. What are you going to do?"

Finch sighed as he looked around the room. "I'm going to start figuring out how to get all this equipment upstairs without a working elevator."

"I'm guessing hiring a moving company is out of the question," Reese said with a chuckle. Finch just gave him a deadpan stare and turned away, only to have his chair forcibly turned back.

"What-" The question was cut off by Reese's lips pressing against his own, a hand gently cradling the back of his neck as Reese leaned over him. Finch groaned softly into Reese's open mouth, their tongues tangling. When Reese drew back, Finch's glasses were fogged up and he was out of breath. "What was that for?"

"Because I wanted to, because I could, and because I love you," Reese said. He smiled, the warmth in his face burning like an ember in Finch's chest, and leaned down again, giving Finch a second, quick kiss. "I'm going to go sweep the area while I call Carter. You'll be okay for a few minutes?"

"Yes, John, I'll be fine," Finch said. He watched Reese walk away, the taller man glancing back a couple of times before disappearing around the corner. Finch turned back to his laptop, but he just stared at the screen for a moment before glancing away, his mind elsewhere. _Because I wanted to, because I could, and because I love you._ Finch smiled to himself, his lips tingling at the memory of Reese's kiss.

"Oh..." he said, suddenly frowning. He picked up his cell and dialed Reese's number, waiting as it rang though.

"Everything all right, Harold?" Reese asked, a thread of worry woven through his words.

"Yes, I just...I forgot to tell you something."

"Oh?"

"I love you, too."

On the other end of the line, Reese chuckled. "I know, Harold. I'll see you in a few minutes." The line went silent and Finch put the phone away. He couldn't stop himself from smiling as his gaze moved slowly over his workstation. A flicker of movement on the monitor caught his attention and he adjusted his glasses as he leaned forward. The upload had finished.

"Are you there?" he asked. He held his breath, waiting.

HELLO, SYS ADMIN FINCH, HAROLD

Finch smiled. Everything was going to be all right. He turned to the laptop and got back to work.


End file.
